Twenty Four Weeks - Episode 2 - "Thirteen" (PG)
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guilty for taking me up on that.”
“Well, thank you. I mean it. So… I’m ringing to remind you about tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say. Her check-up - the first since the bleeding episode down at Elmsbrook. “Do you want me to take you?”
“No. I’m going straight after work. But you can meet me there.”
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll see you then.”
“Hey,” she says, just as I’m about to hang up, “I got an interesting call today.”
“Yeah?”
“The station rang, wanting to talk to you.”
Damn, I thought. I should have given them my cell number. I hadn’t changed my records since I left. They still think I live with Quinn at the apartment.
“They have a number for you apparently. Are you... are you working there again?”
I cough. “Yeah,” I tell her sheepishly. “I’m working with Wade again.”
“What?”
“Apparently I can’t do anything else. Apparently I’m very good at what I do. Apparently they just can’t do without me.”
“Do you really want him back in your life again?”
“Not really, but I don’t see I’ve got much choice.”
“You could work someplace else.”
“Well, as it turns out, I can’t. When I left there were all sorts of rumours going around about why. I guess some were wrong, but some... Anyway, it turns out that my life was a little worse than I thought it was. But, regardless, I need money coming in, Quinn. I’ve got two places to cover. And we’ve got the baby coming and you won’t be able to work forever, right?”
“But you hate him.”
“Well, it’s going to be a professional relationship. And I can do that. Before we were friends, but I guess we weren’t because in my book a friend just doesn’t do those sorts of things to another friend.”
I think she’s crying a little, but I can’t be sure. I’m hurting her again, but that’s not what I want. I know I’m going to need help because I’ll destroy whatever truce we have and I’ll end up back where I started.
“I’ll have to adjust,” I tell her, “but I can do that. This is for you and the baby. It has to be done.”
The phone is silent at her end. She’s gathering herself.
“When you said that you’d be with me, you meant more than just appointments, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. I’m going to support you. I caused all of this, and I’m going to deal with the consequences. That means looking after you and our baby. I’m right behind you, Quinn, no matter what.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” she tells me, “but it’s more that I deserve.”
“Well, I just want you to know you can count on me. So, anything you need?”
“Yeah,” she says after a few seconds. I can hear the sadness creeping in again. “I just need the last two years to go away. Can you do that?”
“I would if I could,” I tell her, and I’m serious.
Back in my flat I take out my notepad, look at the list that I started when I was in Maine. Now I’m feeling cocky. Now I want to cross off the first three items on the list. The problem is that I haven’t fully sorted out two of them. I still don’t know exactly what happened and I still haven’t made up with Quinn completely. We were well on the way, granted, but it was just a start.
And I had no doubt that I’d screw it up again at the first opportunity. I don’t want to do that. I want to change. I want to grow. But I can’t do that on my own. I need some help.
Grant Upton’s card sits on what passes as my kitchen bench. It’s simple, unadorned. I’ve met him but I don’t know him, but that’s better than anyone else I could find. And he said that I could talk to him. And that’s exactly what I needed.
So I call him.
“Hello,” says a woman at the other end.
“I’m looking for Grant...” I say hesitantly.
“Oh. It’s Mary here.” His wife, judging by the poster and the card. “I’ll get him.”
I wait maybe two minutes and his voice comes on the line: “Grant Upton.”
“Ah, hello... this is Judd Altman... we met in Maine, at the seminar...”
“Ah yes... divorce book.”
Good memory, I think. “That’s me. I was wondering if your offer still stands for a talk.”
“It sure does. Hold on...” He goes for a moment, comes back. “Look, I’m available Saturday. If that’s not too soon...?”
“I can do that.”
“Will your wife be joining you?”
“Ah, no,” I say. “We’re only just starting to talk again. I don’t want to push things. Really all I want is some help working out what I did wrong and how to not do it again.”
“That sounds quite reasonable.”
“We have a baby coming and I want to be able to get on with her, you know?”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, I can help you with that. And if your wife wants to talk too, maybe alone, then my wife is available.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Okay, Saturday then.”
He gives me the address and I look it up. It’s an hour upstate, near New Haven, near the sea.
Friday
I take the Porsche down town in the afternoon as I promised and meet Quinn outside her doctor’s office. We’ve done this ritual before, and like so many rituals of my old life, I fall back into them without missing a step. I have to be careful not to bring in my old ways – my biting sarcasm, my veiled put downs. Those things have been what I considered my way. I used humour to mask pain, and sometimes that humour was cruel.
I kiss her on the cheek as we meet, and she doesn’t pull away. She smiles and asks me about my week, about my plans for work. I tell her and she listens. Her face doesn’t change when she hears about Wade, and I’m glad. She’s been well, except for morning sickness, and I smile to hear it. I want the best for her.
She’s on the exam bed and I’m seeing images of our past again. I’m seeing us get bad news about our boy. I’m seeing us get good news about our girl. Our history seems fated to repeat itself over and over again but I hope it won’t.
She wants me in with her. I hold her hand as the doctor examines her, takes her blood pressure and checks her legs. He asks all the familiar questions and she answers them. Some replies I hadn’t heard as yet, but then I don’t live with her anymore.
I walk her back to her car. I open the door for her and help her in.
“What are you up to tomorrow?” she asks.
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
“I’m seeing a marriage counsellor.”
“You’re what?” she says. She heard me. I’m waiting for it to sink in and when it does she’s looking all kinds of confused. “By yourself?”
“Wouldn’t that be amusing,” I say with a smile. “But I’m not actually getting marriage counselling. That’s what he does, but he ‘dabbles’ with other things too, he says. So, he’s helping me. I said the first bit to mess with you.”
She hits me on the shoulder playfully. I miss that. “I’m proud of you,” she says. “I know you hate shrinks.”
I do. My mother is one of sorts. She wrote a book when I was growing up. She put everything that I, and my siblings, did in that damn book. There were no secrets in the Altman house, believe me. The whole town knew about us kids in painful, glorious detail. We learned very quickly to keep things from our mother, secrets that we didn’t want to share with the world. It’s hard to trust a group of people that just want something from you.
“I get the feeling this one is a little different. I don’t know. If it doesn’t work then I haven’t lost anything. If it does, then maybe I won’t make the same mistakes. Maybe I can be a good father.”
“I think you will be.”
“Thanks. I know it’s been a rocky start, but I think this will work.”
“I hope so. And l
ook, you doing this, it means something to me. Maybe you can change. Maybe I can trust you again.”
I shrug. Trust is a two way street.
She smiles, tilts her head a little. I know that look. She’s about to ask me something. She knows that I can’t resist her when she looks cute like that. But I can. I know all her tricks and I’m not obliged to fall for them anymore.
“Can I ask a favour?” she says.
“Sure,” I reply. It feels like I should have said that blandly, and I would have a year ago, but not now. I should give her a fair hearing at least.
“Jen has asked me over for dinner Wednesday night. She’s feeling sorry for me I guess. Anyway,” she continues with a sigh, “I don’t want to say no, but I can’t face a happy couple on my own. It’s too depressing.”
“And you want me to tag along?”
“Could you?” She’s doing that thing again and I’m remembering how she was and how I was and how I can’t resist her. It turns out I still can’t resist her.
“Sure,” I say.
“It’s a date then.”
I shake my head. “Let’s just say its two friends hanging out.”
She nods. Her face drops just a little. “Friends,” she says. “Pick me up at seven?”
“Sure,” I say again. “Oh, by the way... this guy I’m seeing, he says that his wife would be happy to talk to you, if you want. We could go together.”
She bites her lip. “It sounds a little too much like actual marriage counselling to me. But I’ll think about it.”
“Yeah. Sure. I guess what I’m trying to say is that we’ve got options. We don’t have to rush into anything. Divorce is messy, divorce is complicated. Is that what we want?”
“I don’t know, Judd. It’s a little too late, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I say, wondering what