Leo chews on his lip.
“It seemed like it was working. Every time I said something about her, that she wasn’t doing well or was a little crazy, I noticed that you listened extra closely.”
On a visceral level, I object. That isn’t true, I want to say. But then the moments flicker through my memory, one after another. Questions I asked, hints I dug more deeply into, moments when I allowed myself to be caught up in it all. Boundaries I transgressed with respect to both Leo and his parents.
And yet I’m the one sitting here asking for explanations. My shoulders droop. The conversation should have started from a completely different end.
“Sorry,” I say. “I never meant to make you feel that way. I suppose you can say that I have my own demons. And I’ve done a lot of stupid things lately. None of that is your fault.”
Leo leans forward, propping both elbows on his knees.
“Do you understand?” I continue cautiously, eager to really get through to him. “This whole thing is entirely my responsibility. I shouldn’t have—”
Before I have a chance to finish my sentence, he tosses his head so his bangs fly to the side.
“Whatever. It’s chill.”
We sit there in silence for a bit. I think about the friend he told me about, the boy who moved a few months ago. Then I think about his situation at school. And about his feeling neglected, which I’d discovered by reading between the lines whenever his parents came up.
“Everyone needs someone to talk to,” I say, “someone who cares. And I care about you, Leo, I do—for real.”
In the bushes behind us, some magpies screech. One of them flutters away across the yard, seeming to have been thoroughly roughed up by the others.
“I want things to go well for you. No one has the right to treat you badly—no one.”
He leans back again, says that some of the ninth-grade girls actually stepped up to defend him at the start of the week. They told off a couple of boys who had tripped him in the cafeteria and made them, if not exactly apologize, at least back down. Since then things have been a little better. He hopes this will continue.
“I hope so, too,” I say. “Otherwise, you should let me know. Then maybe I’ll write some of them into my next book as victims of a particularly brutal accident.”
Leo shakes his head and laughs.
“You’re a little nuts, you know.”
Before I realize what’s going on, he gives me a quick hug. My chest feels warm, and there’s a prickling feeling in my eyes.
We sit for a while and chat before I finally get up and explain that I have to go. When Leo wonders where I’m headed, I say that I have an errand that can’t wait. A cloud has covered the sun, so I zip up my vest.
“Oh, and,” I add, “I don’t think I ever said this, but your essay was really well written and moving. I hope you get a good grade on it.”
Leo peers up at me from under his bangs.
“Oh, uh… that wasn’t a school assignment. That was… my way of getting you to read something I wrote.”
I stuff my hands into my pockets.
“OK. Well, anyway, it was a good story.”
“It wasn’t true.”
“That’s what’s great about being an author. You don’t always have to stick to the truth. It’s actually better not to.”
51
Days pass and turn into weeks. One day when the weather is nice, I take a long walk. I pass an elderly couple slowly walking along, hand in hand. Their delicate fingers hold each other, and it’s so obvious that they belong together—that they’ve been together for a long time and that they will remain that way until the end. As I pass, the man turns his watery light-blue eyes in my direction and smiles gently.
I have the sense that he’s trying to communicate that life is fragile, that you need to hold on tight to what you love. It’s far too easy to lose each other. I smile back. Sometimes, I think, you lose yourself.
At the park, I sit down on a bench to rest. I have a view of a little girl on a swing, hear her yelling to her dad and asking to be pushed faster. “Higher, higher,” she yells, and when she turns her face in my direction, it startles me. Because the little girl’s coloring is so much like my wife’s; so are her almond-shaped eyes and just the same little dimple in each cheek when she laughs. The likeness is striking. It hits me: She could have been our daughter. And then: What are we doing? What have we done? The last remnants of uncertainty disappear. What had been foggy and dubious no longer is. Everything is so clear, clearer than it has ever been. I quickly get to my feet.
On my way home, there’s something different about my steps, something purposeful. We were only supposed to be in touch if something happened, if one of us made a decision. But something actually has happened, something that made me see the world in a new light. I really want to explain this to my wife. If she would just consider meeting me, I’ll tell her what I’m thinking, what I want.
And then? Then we’ll see.
52
I’m standing outside the police station. Soon I’ll go inside and ask to speak to the officer on duty or whoever can take my account of what happened that afternoon at Anna’s house. Then the question of my potential guilt can finally be resolved. Regardless of what happens, regardless of the outcome, I won’t regret it. This is the only way forward, the only way for me to be able to live with myself in the future. I cast a quick glance up at the sky. You would have come with me, I know.
There’s only one thing that remains to be done before I walk up the stairs to the front door. I pull out my phone and call a very familiar number. An instant later, he’s there again, right up against my ear. My husband, my beloved.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, “about that stuff about getting together, you and me.”
I don’t get any further than that before Peter gives a yell. Eagerly he wonders if my call means that I’m done with whatever needed finishing up. I say yes.
“You can come home, you know, Elena. Any night at all works. I’ll make us dinner—lamb and au gratin potatoes, your favorite.”
He sounds so happy, and of course that makes everything much more difficult. At the same time, I can’t help but wonder if I’m really the one he’s been missing. Or if it’s mostly the loneliness that makes him want us to get back together. I’ll never know, and I suppose it doesn’t matter.
I clear my throat.
“The reason I’m calling is to say that… well, that it’s not a good idea for us to see each other.”
At first he’s confused. He thought that… he thought it sounded like… Then he pulls himself together and changes tack. If I need more time, that’s totally fine. He’s prepared to wait however long it takes if I’ll only—
“No,” I say. “You don’t need to do that. I don’t want you to do that.”
Peter sounds even more flummoxed. I close my eyes, needing to get this over with as quickly as possible. Dragging this out just makes it more painful.
“This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my whole life, but I’m planning to file for divorce.”
At first there’s complete silence on the other end of the line. Then Peter finds his voice again.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry for what I put you through, for betraying you and cheating on you. I don’t think I said that clearly enough at the time, and I… well, I should have said it a long time ago.”
I open my eyes again. It’s as if I had been waiting to hear him say those words. At one time, it had burned inside me to demand them of him. Just as I’d wanted to demand them of Thomas fifteen years ago. My throat feels tight.