Monday, February 13, 2006
Grace Triumphant 021
March 18
I realize that I simply cannot go back to our church. First of all, Greg may be there, and I don't want to see him for anything longer than five or ten minutes, and certainly not in public. And second, I just can't face everybody we know. It's too humiliating.
I'll look up another church in the phone book. I'm supposed to meet Greg at 1:00 for coffee in town. What do I say to him? I need to take Tahlia out for another walk before I go, to make sure she gets her exercise in for the day.
Apart from four walks a day, two of them fairly long, Tahlia is an excellent companion. The house feels less empty when she's here. For the first time I am looking at this blog and remembering that it's supposed to be a continuation of my story of getting out of Fundamentalism. And now it's turned into this chronicle of surviving adultery and trying to make sense of it. I'm not sure I'll do either, successfully.
I want to get back to what I started to write almost three weeks ago. That story needs to be told.
March 18, Addendum
The children will be home soon. I'm a mess, all over again. When I got to the coffee shop, Greg was already inside. It's some consolation to see that he looks horrible. He's actually wild-eyed.
But when I saw him through the glass walls of the shop as I pulled up, I felt real grief, a piercing vulnerability, as though I had to face an ordeal of hearing every reason that he had chosen another woman over me. That now-familiar wringing sadness of not knowing how I lost my own husband got hold of me again. In fact, as I got out of the car, my legs were quivering.
He hadn't seen me pull in. He was looking through the glass on the opposite wall, staring hard. And then, with a transformation that was abrupt and seems almost impossible, the closer I got to the door, the angrier I became. Not the anger that threw dishes and glasses at him, but something more like Jim expressed. I am almost 40 and have had two children. I've done my best to please my husband, but no woman my age can compete with a 24 year old girl. There has to be more to marriage than sex, and there has to be more to a man's love for his wife than her youthfulness.
I still felt a gnawing fear that I had done something to alienate him, that it was my fault and I could never repair what I had done wrong. But something else, some insight born of Jim and seeing how much he loved his own wife, made me more forceful than I ever thought I could be. A sudden wind caught me as I opened the door to the shop, and Greg looked up and saw me. Above all else, I could not be the woman Greg expected me to be. I could not be out of control of myself. I could never let him see how sad I was.
I entered, and he stood up. He was pale, his face worried. But his clothing was ironed, and he was wearing a collared shirt and business casual khakis. He'd been to work that day. Where she worked, too.
"Sit down," I said to him. He sat. Then I sat.
"Don't you want anything?" he asked me. He had a coffee cup in front of him.
"You've been wanting to talk to me, so talk," I said.
"Grace," he began, but he paused, thinking I would volley out my own words, but I only looked at him, my purse in my lap, my hands knotted together the way my little Rachel's hands were when she was so afraid. I spread out my hands over my purse.
"Talk, Greg," I said. "This is what you wanted, and it's not going to last long, so you better say what you have to say."
Now he was uncertain. A hint of caution came into those panicked eyes. He had expected blame, grief, words. My demand that he speak, and my ability to wait until he did caught him off guard. "I want you to know I'm sorry," he said. "It was a one-time thing---"
"For just about 30 days," I added. "Stop lying to me."
"I mean a one-time fling. It was crazy. It was an insanity. And she threw herself at me Grace---" He was still talking, but my mind went back to my own parents, my adulterous father. For so long, I thought the affair when my mother had caught him had been his first. It took years for me to realize that my father had been cheating on my mother all their married life. I looked at my husband. He was still talking.
"So you're going back there, after I say goodbye to you today?" I asked him. "Back to where she is?"
"I broke it off with her, Grace," he said. "It's over. Try to understand, she doesn't mean anything to me."
I stood up. "Nobody means anything to you, Greg. I'm starting to realize that."
He jumped up. "Where are you going?"
"Home." I turned and walked away. The coffee shop was nearly empty, but the young man behind the counter kept one eye on us as he wiped up.
"Grace I have to go to work," Greg called after me. "Don't you understand that?"
"Sure. Have a nice day." I pulled open the door without looking at him.
"What about the children?" he called. His distress was real, and I felt that call like an arrow through me. They were suffering.
"You can take them to church on Sunday, and to your mother's if you want," I said. "But you better bring them back."
He looked from me to the open door. The wind outside had died down. It was like everything around me was just waiting. "This isn't a way to solve anything," he said. "We have to talk about what's happened."
"Not while you're working there, with her." Now the young man at the counter was openly staring at us.
"She won't leave, Grace. I asked her."
I gave him one look of open disgust and walked out. He came after me then, but my car was right at the door. I got into it and pulled out while he stood on the sidewalk, staring at me.
He is the most selfish man I've ever met. Did he really think he would do what he did and then just keep his life as tidy and neat as it's been?
I knew that in a sense I did the right thing, met him the right way, gotten him off balance. I have his attention. And the confrontation pushed me to a new understanding. We won't talk until he's out of that office. I played the fool once, but not twice. He has to leave her behind.
But none of my new insight, nor even the small victory I'd gotten, stopped me from crying and sobbing all over again when I got home. I sat on the floor in my bedroom, my back against the bed, my knees to my face, and cried. Tahlia, not understanding, came and sat next to me, then lay down and dozed. The children will be home soon, and I have to get myself together to meet them and give them some type of calm and orderly world.
|
Grace,
Where are you? I've been calling your cell phone for days. I finally decided to run down to the library and use a computer that doesn't have all those doggone security filters that we have to use now, just to make sure you get this. So I'm sending you an e-mail, but if you reply to it, I may nor see the reply until I get access to another less secure computer. Please call me if you get this.
Cinn
I realize that I simply cannot go back to our church. First of all, Greg may be there, and I don't want to see him for anything longer than five or ten minutes, and certainly not in public. And second, I just can't face everybody we know. It's too humiliating.
I'll look up another church in the phone book. I'm supposed to meet Greg at 1:00 for coffee in town. What do I say to him? I need to take Tahlia out for another walk before I go, to make sure she gets her exercise in for the day.
Apart from four walks a day, two of them fairly long, Tahlia is an excellent companion. The house feels less empty when she's here. For the first time I am looking at this blog and remembering that it's supposed to be a continuation of my story of getting out of Fundamentalism. And now it's turned into this chronicle of surviving adultery and trying to make sense of it. I'm not sure I'll do either, successfully.
I want to get back to what I started to write almost three weeks ago. That story needs to be told.
March 18, Addendum
The children will be home soon. I'm a mess, all over again. When I got to the coffee shop, Greg was already inside. It's some consolation to see that he looks horrible. He's actually wild-eyed.
But when I saw him through the glass walls of the shop as I pulled up, I felt real grief, a piercing vulnerability, as though I had to face an ordeal of hearing every reason that he had chosen another woman over me. That now-familiar wringing sadness of not knowing how I lost my own husband got hold of me again. In fact, as I got out of the car, my legs were quivering.
He hadn't seen me pull in. He was looking through the glass on the opposite wall, staring hard. And then, with a transformation that was abrupt and seems almost impossible, the closer I got to the door, the angrier I became. Not the anger that threw dishes and glasses at him, but something more like Jim expressed. I am almost 40 and have had two children. I've done my best to please my husband, but no woman my age can compete with a 24 year old girl. There has to be more to marriage than sex, and there has to be more to a man's love for his wife than her youthfulness.
I still felt a gnawing fear that I had done something to alienate him, that it was my fault and I could never repair what I had done wrong. But something else, some insight born of Jim and seeing how much he loved his own wife, made me more forceful than I ever thought I could be. A sudden wind caught me as I opened the door to the shop, and Greg looked up and saw me. Above all else, I could not be the woman Greg expected me to be. I could not be out of control of myself. I could never let him see how sad I was.
I entered, and he stood up. He was pale, his face worried. But his clothing was ironed, and he was wearing a collared shirt and business casual khakis. He'd been to work that day. Where she worked, too.
"Sit down," I said to him. He sat. Then I sat.
"Don't you want anything?" he asked me. He had a coffee cup in front of him.
"You've been wanting to talk to me, so talk," I said.
"Grace," he began, but he paused, thinking I would volley out my own words, but I only looked at him, my purse in my lap, my hands knotted together the way my little Rachel's hands were when she was so afraid. I spread out my hands over my purse.
"Talk, Greg," I said. "This is what you wanted, and it's not going to last long, so you better say what you have to say."
Now he was uncertain. A hint of caution came into those panicked eyes. He had expected blame, grief, words. My demand that he speak, and my ability to wait until he did caught him off guard. "I want you to know I'm sorry," he said. "It was a one-time thing---"
"For just about 30 days," I added. "Stop lying to me."
"I mean a one-time fling. It was crazy. It was an insanity. And she threw herself at me Grace---" He was still talking, but my mind went back to my own parents, my adulterous father. For so long, I thought the affair when my mother had caught him had been his first. It took years for me to realize that my father had been cheating on my mother all their married life. I looked at my husband. He was still talking.
"So you're going back there, after I say goodbye to you today?" I asked him. "Back to where she is?"
"I broke it off with her, Grace," he said. "It's over. Try to understand, she doesn't mean anything to me."
I stood up. "Nobody means anything to you, Greg. I'm starting to realize that."
He jumped up. "Where are you going?"
"Home." I turned and walked away. The coffee shop was nearly empty, but the young man behind the counter kept one eye on us as he wiped up.
"Grace I have to go to work," Greg called after me. "Don't you understand that?"
"Sure. Have a nice day." I pulled open the door without looking at him.
"What about the children?" he called. His distress was real, and I felt that call like an arrow through me. They were suffering.
"You can take them to church on Sunday, and to your mother's if you want," I said. "But you better bring them back."
He looked from me to the open door. The wind outside had died down. It was like everything around me was just waiting. "This isn't a way to solve anything," he said. "We have to talk about what's happened."
"Not while you're working there, with her." Now the young man at the counter was openly staring at us.
"She won't leave, Grace. I asked her."
I gave him one look of open disgust and walked out. He came after me then, but my car was right at the door. I got into it and pulled out while he stood on the sidewalk, staring at me.
He is the most selfish man I've ever met. Did he really think he would do what he did and then just keep his life as tidy and neat as it's been?
I knew that in a sense I did the right thing, met him the right way, gotten him off balance. I have his attention. And the confrontation pushed me to a new understanding. We won't talk until he's out of that office. I played the fool once, but not twice. He has to leave her behind.
But none of my new insight, nor even the small victory I'd gotten, stopped me from crying and sobbing all over again when I got home. I sat on the floor in my bedroom, my back against the bed, my knees to my face, and cried. Tahlia, not understanding, came and sat next to me, then lay down and dozed. The children will be home soon, and I have to get myself together to meet them and give them some type of calm and orderly world.
