by Desiree Span
He had turned from memory to vivid reality, and the heartache his absence caused was now just too painful to ignore. It was as if all the wounds of the past had been torn open again, and the fact that this was causing Jan so much pain felt as if I was rubbing salt in those wounds with my own hands.
And then there was Jan, my kind and beautiful husband. The one who had given me a reason to want to fall in love again. Jan was familiar; he made me feel at peace. He was my safe haven, my tower of strength.
I was in serious trouble. For even if Jan could ever find it in his heart to forgive me, I was not sure if I could suppress that part of me that had always belonged to Oliver back to its dormant state. But one thing I did know. I had to fight for my marriage. If not for us, for our children. So I had to contain myself; forget Oliver and everything he meant to me. Even if it meant smothering the memory of Oliver to a supposed death.
* * *
“Do you still love me?” he had asked.
“Of course I do,” I had said and taken his hand.
He looked at our hands and then softly squeezed mine. “I really want to believe you,” he murmured softly. “I want to work on the recovery of our relationship, and I believe you want to make this work, but I can’t fight for us if you are in love with another man. So the question is: Is your heart solely mine or are we wasting our time?”
Of course I said that he was the only man for me and that I had made a huge mistake. And in fact that wasn’t a lie. I truly believed Jan to be the right person for me and that wanting to be with Oliver, after so many years, was too complicated and therefore pointless.
We tried to pick up where we had left off before me going to the United States. And I did everything in my power to please Jan. And I pretended to be the perfect wife. And Jan tried his utmost best to forgive me and pretend nothing had happened. But as could be expected, this “pretending” can only last for so long. For though he had said he forgave me, forgetting seemed to be very hard. And while we pretended, tension, mistrust and irritations built up, which resulted in endless futile bickering and quarreling. Something that was completely unlike us.
Eventually the inevitable happened and we got into a huge fight. The cause was irrelevant, but the effect was that all the anger, frustration and disappointment sweltered up again. And Jan shouted and I yelled and he insulted me and I belittled him, and after ten minutes of a to and fro of reproaches and accusations, we were simply exhausted.
“I can’t do this anymore, Erica,” he said. “If we really want to get through this, I think we need some time apart. I need time apart. To think and heal and figure out what it is I feel,” he said while tears rolled down his face.
“I love you. And I will do anything it takes to mend this,” I said, also crying softly.
“I’ll give you a call later. We’ll talk then,” he replied sadly. He grabbed his coat and slowly shut the front door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
OLIVER
2015
* * *
She was gone. And just as the first time she had left me, I was a mess. After Erica had left I don’t know how many days had passed, but it was past midnight and I found myself once more standing at our treehouse. This time I was very, very drunk, so much so that I couldn’t even manage to get up the stairs. I just stood there, immersed in my misery, and then in a spur of anger I threw the bottle of vodka I had been holding in my hand against the immense trunk of the tree. It was with such force that the glass splintered in uncountable pieces.
I then walked to my father’s shed, wobbly but in a determined pace, grabbed the ax and started slashing away at the oak tree. I kept on hacking until my arms hurt, and after a while of futilely chopping at the solid tree, I stumbled and fell to the cold ground. I didn’t have the strength to continue and decided to just stay there, panting from exhaustion.
I looked up at the stars in the sky that seemed to be dancing with each other and spinning around their axis and I wondered if this would ever pass. I would have given anything to have her, but right then even more to just be able to forget she had ever existed.
And suddenly it hit me that both times Erica had left, it had gone hand in hand with someone dying on me. The irony of this symbolism made me chuckle out loud, but my laughter soon turned into tears. I then wiped my face and slightly noticed that the palm of my hands were bleeding. I spread my arms and legs and felt the icy grass melt underneath me, soaking my clothes. I was cold, but I didn’t care.
That’s where my mother found me the next morning. And while she lifted me to my shaky feet and checked if I wasn’t hurt elsewhere, she reprimanded me for making her worry so much and me not taking care of myself and that I was surely going to catch pneumonia. Standing in her bathrobe, she then put her arms around me and hugged me tightly. Together we had a long, good cry.
An hour later I was showered, shaven and warm again and we were sitting silently at the kitchen table with a hot cup of coffee in our hands.
“You saw Erica, didn’t you?” she suddenly asked out of the blue.
I kept quiet, which to her said enough.
“Her mother told me she was here. When you both disappeared for three days we just assumed... you know,” she said.
I stared at my coffee, still silent.
“I know you are mourning your father, but we all are, Oliver. It’s no excuse to behave this way,” she continued, not hiding her disappointment. “But you will leave it at this!”
I didn’t respond but ran my hand through my hair with annoyance. My head was pounding, my body ached and I was in a foul mood. My mother was the last person I wanted to have this conversation with at that moment.
“Are you listening, Oliver?” she said sternly.
I put down my coffee with a thud. “Why? Why do I have to leave it at this? Can’t I have a shot at happiness? I have tried, Mom. But Erica is the one. She is the only one that can make me happy!” I said, agitated.
“Olly,” she said more softly now. “I know you and Erica have always had this thing... this special connection that only you two understood. But she is married and has a family. You can’t get in between that. So whatever it is you are struggling with, you have to let her be.” She took my hand. “Please, promise me you won’t go after her this time. It will only bring more heartbreak,” she said.
I looked my mother in the eye and then I slowly placed the blue velvet box, with Nana Rose-Marie’s ring, on the table. I had found it in the inside pocket of my leather jacket when she was already gone. After I had left it for her to find in the treehouse so many years ago, she had now given it back. She must have slipped it in my jacket without me even noticing.
My mother looked surprised, first at the box and then at me. “I always wondered what you had done with it,” she said.
“Well, back then I did exactly what Nana-Rose Marie instructed. I passed it on to the woman I love. But... well, she’s given it back,” I said and my voice croaked.
My mother’s mouth had slightly dropped open and she was shaking her head in disbelief.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t go after her. She’s made her choice,” I said, and I stood up and quickly walked out of the kitchen.
I stayed with my mother for another week and then it was time for me to return to Texas and attend to business. And when I kissed her good-bye and hugged her tightly I noticed how tired and frail she suddenly looked. I made Timothy swear he would take good care of her, patted him on the back and then I left.
Back at work, I managed by functioning on automatic pilot. My world was colorless and tasteless, and I isolated myself almost completely from everyone, spoke only when I was spoken to and barely left my house. My colleagues and friends assumed the cause of my gloominess was the loss of my father, and though his passing away was a blow I would never fully recover from, having to see Erica go once more made everything more unbearable.
Months passed and I started to hate my constant wallowing. But I hadn’t succeeded in fo
rgetting her before, when Erica had long been absent in my life, and now with her coming back, it seemed that once again everywhere I turned things would remind me of her and everyone I saw was only a bleak shadow compared to her. I felt frustrated, angry and lonely.
* * *
One evening I was lying on my couch, smoking and staring at the ceiling, when Claire called to check on me. She was worried about me and had been doing this on a regular basis. Despite our separation, she and I had always remained very good friends and, what might seem strange to others, she was the only one I had confided in and told about Erica’s brief return to my life.
“You can’t go on like this, sweetie,” she lectured. “I know you haven’t had it easy, but you have to stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she said. “It’s simply pathetic! So you pick up the phone and call her. Talk to her and find out if there is any possibility of you ever functioning like a normal human being again,” she then demanded.
“I can’t. I can’t make her break up her marriage,” I said when I was able to interrupt her rambling.
“Well if that is so then you get your act together, snap out of it, and for once and for all move on with your life! I just don’t understand the obsession you’ve got over this woman. Think about it, Oliver. What has she done to deserve to be put on such a pedestal?”
I didn’t have an answer for her. I guess the heart wants what the heart wants. And then I thought that the solution was in fact to simply give up trying to get over her. I realized that no matter what I did, whom I met or where I lived, I would forever be in love with Erica, and the more I fought against it or denied it, the harder it was for me to forget her. So I had to give up trying and just accept the fact that my heart was hers and that even though she had been able to move on, I was just not that strong or lucky. However unfortunate, she had unwillingly ruined me for anyone else.
Claire scoffed and called my insight “simply idiotic,” but her tone was soft and compassionate, and before she hung up she told me she was going to call me in a couple of days and that I had better be cheery and upbeat by then for if not she would have her own therapist make me a house call.
* * *
After talking to Claire, in a strange way my resignation gave me some inner peace. I decided the best distraction was to focus on what was now my business and seeing that my father’s passing away had left the divisions in my hometown afloat. I was buried in work and eventually hired someone to take over his position and take charge of the situation there. And slowly, just as the body is remarkably able to physically heal itself, in time so can it emotionally. And I was able to gather myself together, for as the cliché saying says: “Life goes on.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ERICA
2016
* * *
It was hot, too hot. I felt I couldn’t breathe and I threw the covers off and sat on the edge of the bed. I then stood up, pulled all my hair up in a messy bun and headed downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee. It was 4 a.m., but I was too anxious and wouldn’t be able to get more sleep anyway.
I took my steaming cup of coffee to the studio and studied the piece I had been working on for several days. It was a huge abstract painting and I used solely primary colors, but I couldn’t seem to get the composition right. After a couple of sips I put my coffee down and picked up a broad painting brush. Without thinking too much about it, I dipped it in lapis lazuli-colored oil paint and worked the canvas with thick strokes.
I kept on working throughout the morning, and at around 8 a.m. I started making breakfast for the girls. Laila always wanted her eggs sunny-side up, but Olivia preferred them scrambled but not too dry. Miss Picky-Picky. I smiled thinking about my girls and how fast they had grown up. Eleven years already!
After breakfast my cousin Lynn was picking them up. Lynn had invited them on a short trip to Paris, with her husband and kids. The trip included two days to EuroDisney. It was a pre-birthday gift, for the girls’ birthday was in August, but tickets were much cheaper at this time of year. They had shrieked with excitement when she came over to tell them, and they had each packed their carry-ons the previous evening and couldn’t sleep with anticipation.
At 11:05 Lynn was standing at the door with a huge smile.
“Ready girls?” she asked. “Nobody needs to use the bathroom? Laila? Are you sure? Well then, let’s hit the road!” Lynn yelled and clapped, enthusiastically hooting and cheerleadering the twins out the door.
I waved until they were out of sight, then walked back to my kitchen and cleaned up the breakfast table. After I put the dishes in the sink I headed toward the shower.
We were supposed to meet at this lunchroom near the central station. I thought that it was the most practical thing, plus they had the best apple pie. We would have lunch and from there, who knew? We didn’t plan ahead of that. Besides, after everything that had happened, we had a lot to talk about and the whole thing had me nervous enough. The one thing I was most anxious about, though, was if he would even show up at all.
I took a long shower, put on a casual but pretty dress and took extra care in doing my hair. I then sat in the living room staring at the clock over the chimney, waiting for the correct time to leave the house. I didn’t want to put myself in the position where I would have to be anxiously waiting for him to show up, but I didn’t want to get there late either.
* * *
It had started to drizzle when I stepped on my bike. So with an umbrella in one hand and the steering bar in the other, I arrived at the central station of Amsterdam. It was Friday and the place was crawling with students, people dressed in suits and of course tourists.
I loved this city. It was always fizzing with people, trams, and bikes and the city felt, well, alive. I loved the fact that while biking toward the station I had heard three different languages, which didn’t include Dutch. And I loved seeing the expression of we-are-off-to-a-new-adventure in the eyes of young backpackers. I was amused by the contrasts of well-regulated tolerance in this city. You might be strolling along merrily with your wife and kids just to suddenly find yourself looking at a hooker on display in the red-light district, but don’t you dare take a piss against a tree and get caught, for it will cost you 130 euros for disrupting the public order. Dogs are welcome in some lunchrooms and restaurants and are even served free tap water, but the customer has to pay nearly two euros to quench his or her thirst with a small bottle. And even after having lived in this country for so many years I never understood how the Dutch being generally big and tall people could comfortably function in such small and confined spaces.
I placed my bike in the bicycle rack and shook my umbrella before folding it and putting it away. And as I was making my way to the entrance I was repeating the thing I had actually been doing the whole night before. I had been going over and over the scenario that was about to unfold. Like in the movies, I had been directing the scenes in my head. And in the end there where three plots; three ways this could end.
Scenario #1: We would meet, at the agreed place and time. He would look at me with forgiving eyes and swoop me up in his arms, and we would live happily forever after.
Scenario #2: We would meet, at the agreed place and time. He would look at me with eyes full of sadness and blame and we would definitely part ways forever.
And Scenario #3, the one that had me with sweaty palms: He changed his mind and would stand me up. And while I waited and waited it would evidently become clear to me that he never wanted to see me again. I would then go home, my head hanging and my heart crushed.
Anyways, I was about to find out.
I was purposely five minutes late, and as I walked to the central station’s Meeting Point I scanned the area, but I didn’t see him. I stood under the Meeting Point sign for a couple of minutes and looked around, then nervously pulled at a loose thread I saw hanging from the hem of my dress.
Then as I looked up again, I saw his face in the distance. It was him. He was walking through the
crowd and, as if I was still rehearsing the scene in my head, he seemed to be walking in slow motion, as if on a cloud. He had spotted me as well and walked straight toward me in a steady pace. And there he was, standing right in front of me.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hi,” I replied, almost whispering, and for a few seconds we just stood there, me staring into those unforgettably beautiful, baby blue eyes.
He then put the duffle bag he was carrying over one shoulder on the ground and leaned in. He carefully gave me a kiss on the cheek, but the kiss was just a few fractions of a second longer than the ordinary, friendly kiss. It was one of those that make long lost lovers that meet again wonder if there is still hope for more.
“I’m so happy you came,” I then said.
“Many years ago I promised you at the treehouse that one day I would come. So here I am, E,” he said.
At that memory I gave him a little smile. “And, what happens now?” I asked quietly.
He paused, lifted his hand and lovingly pushed a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I don’t know... but, we’ll figure it out,” he said and gave me a gorgeous smile.
He then picked up his duffle bag with one hand and took hold of my hand with the other, and with our fingers intertwined we walked toward the exit door.
Epilogue