Lost in Hotels

by Martin, M.

  “And then you found a crack in my wall, which was your brilliant mind and charm and kindness that took me away from my average life and to that place you only get glimpses of when you first meet someone and then never again,” I plead.

  “But why didn’t you tell me you were married? I would have probably still gone after you, but why allow yourself to become the most despicable kind of liar?”

  His question is the very one I’ve asked myself for almost an entire year. I’ve agonized about what it was that didn’t allow me to simply tell him when we first started to embrace in the water off Rio or in my hotel room in Paris. This whole situation could have just been an inappropriate but forgivable fling and nothing more.

  “I would have said and done anything to have just one more second with you. I didn’t want you to just be a passing thing; I wanted you to be forever,” I say in total vulnerability.

  With those words, all my emotion manifests itself into a long and overdue breakdown. I lie two feet from him engulfed in tears and in full hysterics as he sits motionless watching with hands still in his lap. There is no sympathy or pity; there is only contempt and pain in those incredible eyes that now look at me as his heart’s assailant.

  “What about the fact that you’re a fucking mother? I mean, who in the hell does that except women who drown their babies in a bathtub.”

  “Heartless sluts do it, I guess. What do you want me to say? I love my son, but I’m still a woman. I still crave someone who desires and wants me, someone who lingers with his hands over dinner and does more than jerk off inside me for sex when I’m lucky. And then there’s the endless sleepless nights followed by twelve-hour workdays that aren’t the chummy PTA bake sale I was imagining.”

  “PTA … what’s PTA?” he says in all his British-ness with a glimpse of his former playful self. Even just for a passing moment, all I want is to see the carefree and loving eyes of the man I so love emerge from this fog of contempt.

  “It’s a parents program in the schools here; it’s awful.”

  David disregards my comment, and the moment passes as if it didn’t even arrive, and with it the last time I might ever see the carefree spirit of his inner soul.

  “And Paris, what about Paris?”

  “What do you mean? What was I doing in Paris?” I ask.

  “Yes, that felt far too coincidental seeing you in Paris. Did you know I used to date Kelly? Is that why you did the interview?”

  “No, not at all,” I say as if offended. “The interview was entirely coincidental. But I moved the interview to Paris in hope of seeing you.”

  “So you stalked me.”

  “That’s a harsh word. I didn’t want to actually talk; I just wanted to see you once, just one more time.”

  “So you could ruin my life?”

  “So that I could see your face, breathe the same air, daydream about what could have been in another lifetime without realizing that I could trip and fall and lose myself in this fantasy. It was you who came to my room, after all.”

  “You have no idea what you have done to my life,” he says with emotion that appears to run deep.

  “David, I am so very sorry. I can only tell you that every moment and emotion and word was real and true.”

  “I introduced you to my closest friends. I shared thoughts and plans with you that I have never shared with anyone. I was faithful to you even though we never even had the conversation, all the while you were getting it in both ends from me and your husband.”

  “But you didn’t expect we would be happily ever after when we only saw each other every two months now, did you?”

  “When people have real jobs they can’t spend every waking hour staring at each other in their musty one-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn.”

  With David’s words, I realize the worst. He’s not only been to my home, but also inside, and he knows the exact details. I imagine the hurt that awaits me at home, my son in the midst of Christmas having lost his family and Mom to this unknown who turns up out of nowhere. I am at a loss of words for my treacherous behavior that leaves a battlefield of lost lives even beyond my comprehension.

  “Did you sleep with more guys than just me?” he asks.

  “You are the only man I have ever cheated with in my marriage or even while dating. I am not a cheater,” I say emphatically.

  “Well, you certainly play the part well.”

  No response I can give will quell his relentless barrage. I simply stare in contrite silence and hope some glimpse of the person I was to him before all of this, emerges with my blunt truthfulness and full culpability.

  “Why did you invite me to Africa? And why did you ask me to fly you to my home when you knew it meant so much to me? My friends are all I have, my parents are fucking dead, and you take advantage of my deepest vulnerabilities.”

  “David, I love you. I wanted nothing more than to be with you.”

  “And live the good life sucking it up with all my friends and playing the posh girlfriend while her own family lives in squalor.”

  “I can’t take much more of this, David, I really can’t.” Hearing what he thinks of my home wounds my soul beyond repair.

  “You most certainly will until I am done. You have made me suffer, and now it’s your turn to face your actions,” he pauses. “Was Matt that bad of a guy? Did he beat you or ever let you down as a man?”

  Talking about Matt stings, as if a parallel universe I never wanted to admit existed or discuss is forced down my throat. There’s no other way to escape this moment other than to allow a clear, unfiltered line from my heart through my words.

  “Matt and I met at a time in my life when I was one of the last women I knew who was still single. I was worried and scared that the life I had imagined I would have was no longer going to be an option if I didn’t settle down soon with someone, maybe anyone.”

  Men don’t know the agony of a woman at thirty-seven and still without a child, a man, or hope of one explainable in a single sentence that justifies she is still dreaming of having a family like everyone else. I’d meet men who wanted to date women who weren’t so old that the conversation of marriage or children came up on the second date. They wanted women they could have fun with and then breakup with without having to feel guilty they left her just short of the gate where the ring, the baby, and the life were almost, and yet may never be again. Then I met Matt, who loved and accepted me, and my age was never an issue. He was my last exit to have that life, and I no longer felt in a position to say, “Not this guy.”

  “Or the alternative version is that you were too weak to leave or make it work when you could gallivant and meet another fool to take care of you,” he says.

  “No one takes care of me, if I haven’t already made that clear. I work very hard and provide for my family regardless of how you might choose to believe. Then you came along and were like this prince who would allow me to be the woman in the relationship. You phoned when you said you would, you’d plan dinners, and special moments. You were always a step ahead of what my wildest dreams could expect. Then there was this passion, this incredible sex that made everything else in my life feel second. There was only you, David.”

  “And this is what I get; this is what I get when I give the very best of myself,” he says as if speaking to the universe and me.

  “David, you bear no fault in this situation. If anything, you were too perfect and made me willing to risk everything at the mere idea of seeing you just one more time.”

  “I came to New York—” he begins and then stops.

  “You came to New York, why?” I ask after a few moments. His eyes begin to glass over, but not so much that a tear emerges.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “No, please, tell me.”

  Suddenly he stands and removes his tie and jacket, which he throws across the desk. There’s urge
ncy to his movement, as my mind wonders if Matt is soon to appear or some other surprise that even my mind cannot fathom in all this hellish chaos.

  “So Catherine, I need a second. I’m going to head out for a while and you can leave, stay, or really do whatever you want. I can’t really think about you anymore; it’s just all too much for me.”

  “David, sit, please,” I say rising next to him. I grab his hand, but he rips it away from me.

  He doesn’t say a word as he picks up his files from the floor and stuffs them into a briefcase that he leaves on a chair next to the table before exiting the room with a slam of the door. I want to chase after him; I don’t want to lose him, but I also realize his mood is unpredictable, and I’m unsure of what would unfold in the hallway or lobby. I stand for a moment and take in the room. Suddenly, it feels like a prison cell for a thief who’s forced to sit with her stolen treasures. David’s clothes and leather duffel bag sit on the floor in the next room with my own luggage that seems like the criminal’s forfeited weapon that someone will eventually use as evidence.

  My mind flees outside the hotel walls that foretell my new reality. The hope of David returning to me is better than anywhere I could run away to right now. In all the turmoil, I hadn’t even grasped that these are possibly the last few moments I will ever have with him. I wonder if I should go, but I believe if he really wanted me to leave, he would have said it outright. He wanted the conversation, and his absence was because he needed to regroup for a moment and not because he was done with me.

  An hour turns to two. My stomach churns, and I venture from the couch to wander the room that feels a bit more comfortable with the passing of time. He thinks me a thief and a liar, which makes me uncomfortable to touch his shirts in the closet or the toiletries he’s laid on a washcloth in the bathroom with its black veiny marble and translucent bulb chandelier that dangles above the distraught face of a broken woman who looks back from the mirror. I can’t help but pick up the fragrance bottle that reminds me of him condensed in a single whiff, which dries my eyes before sending me into tears all over again. I look in the mirror at the outfit I wore to see him, dreaming as I put it on that the next time it was removed he would be ripping it off—a moment that will never be or likely ever be again.

  Two hours turn to three as I return to the couch somewhat calmer and the anxiety of being exposed a fraud now ingrained within. Everybody now knows everything, and I’m left with only the ashes and not the fear of the fire. I consider turning on my cell phone, but know the message that is to come from Matt and the second wave of this battle that I will be forced to inevitably fight, but right now feel too weak to face. The unmade bed and his used pillows beckon my face and touch. I crave nothing but to roll up into a ball in the bed where he once lay and allow all this to fade away.

  The 1:00 a.m. rouge of the room indicts my inner thoughts like a guilty harlot as some of the lights in the outside skyline begin to turn off, and I wonder if David might not come back at all with almost four hours gone. Will he be mad I’m still here, or simply kick me out in the middle of the night to walk along Park Avenue, as I deserve, my bag in tow as Christmas lights taunt in aggressive flicker?

  Then I hear loaded footsteps in the hall just outside. I reposition myself on the sofa to appear as if I hadn’t moved despite the hours of time. The air in the room is stale with dim light that hovers around the low-wattage bulbs of the delicate Victorian fixtures next to the bed. David enters, his unbuttoned white shirt and shoes held in hand, as he turns the corner immediately upon entering and sees me still here in this last corner of our life.

  “You’re still here?” he says as he takes a seat in the awkward rocker. His more relaxed face is chapped from the frigid weather outside that has frosted the edges of our windows.

  “I’ll leave if you want me to; I just wasn’t sure.”

  “Wasn’t sure of what?” he says, sitting motionless.

  “I wasn’t sure if you had more questions.”

  “Oh, I have a lot more questions, but none of which really get answered with your explanations.”

  He leans over his legs, elbows resting on his knees. His smart striped socks with orange stitch detailing seem to smile up from the serious woven rug of the living room.

  “I have been completely honest with you,” I say.

  “I thought you were annoying when I first saw you, uptight and stuck in a constant inward reflection that was like some sort of introverted narcissism. Then you became more relaxed; a person I felt completely at ease with and wanted to linger more and more with in conversation. The sex was average at first, but you seemed comfortable being led into what became an entirely fulfilling emotional and physical relationship.”

  David struggles and wipes his eyes before continuing.

  “In Paris, I felt there was some sort of divine intervention, maybe even from my mother who had you cross in my path. I felt redeemed after being so disappointed that you didn’t contact me after Rio.”

  “I never got the information you left for me at the hotel, truly David.”

  “But there was a way to if you had really wanted. So I figured you didn’t feel the same connection or had other priorities that didn’t leave room for me. Paris was perfection, from the way we talked all night to the way you fixed the buttons back on my shirt without me knowing it after being ripped off the day before. And then when we parted, it was as if the time between allowed the relationship to grow; me sharing all there was to know about myself, and you listening and sharing all about yourself—much of what I now know to be lies and half-truths.”

  “It wasn’t all a lie, David.”

  “And in Los Angeles, I was in awe of you and caught myself in conversation with people saying that you were the type of person I would be proud to say I loved and was loved by in return. Ibiza made me see your more playful side, and Italy made me completely certain you were the right one for me. I pursued a job offer with a New York company so our relationship could have some sort of future, and we wouldn’t waste years getting to that place where I was yours and you were alas mine.”

  David tears up and pauses. He tucks his feet back into his shoes before getting up and packing his computer with the remaining items from the desk and lifting it up and into his lap as he settles into a chair that’s soothingly closer to me.

  “I wanted to get to know life with you. I wanted to know what it was like to take care of you when you were sick or food shop before coming home and making supper that would have been better than any hotel experience we could ever have. You were the type of woman I liked waking up next to as much as going to bed with. I didn’t want to have just one child with you; I wanted to have four or five that we would raise in the country. I would have found a local job to keep me close to you, and you would transition to writing books and being the great mom I know you would be. The great mom I think you still can be contrary to whatever I feel about you now.”

  I begin to cry. David’s sensitivity seems even less bearable than his previous anger, the kind heart of the betrayed that seems too good to me.

  “But Catherine, you need to go be that mother and find joy in the life that you have instead of chasing it in places where you’re never going to find it, and simply make what you do have all the less fulfilling.”

  David stands again and reaches into his bag. He pulls out a small ring box. Its Asprey logo and demure presence emotionally collapses me, and I begin to sob without control.

  “I was going to surprise you with this before we parted, not so much a marriage proposal, but a ring that would remind you of my intentions and the path I felt we had long since embarked upon.”

  He holds the box dwarfed in his thick hands and sets it on a table in front of me.

  “I didn’t really want to give you this, but the truth is I think you should have it regardless, as they don’t give refunds, and I really don’t want it lying
around reminding me of this time in my life.”

  I sit staring at the box as David moves into the bedroom and shuffles in the closet as if packing and then taking his duffel bag into the bathroom where a single swoop of commotion brings him back into the living room before me. He zips the opening of his black leather briefcase and puts his wallet in the lining of his inside jacket before looking over at me.

  “So—” he begins, and then stops. He hovers above me appearing more emotional than he’s been throughout the entire conversation.

  “So,” I say, looking up at him unable to fathom the moment where he is actually gone from my life.

  “So, it’s been interesting, to say the least,” he says.

  “David, I’m so sorry. I cannot even begin to tell you how sorry I am for deceiving you.”

  His eyes are almost neon blue and his cheeks are rosy and offset by his jet-black head of hair. He turns away from me and makes a direct line for the door without a hesitation, a look back, a good-bye. I want to chase him or grab his hand, especially if it’s the last time to touch his skin, but I remain hopeful he will turn back. In the silence of a midnight hallway, the door slams shut. I run to the door and look out the peephole to watch him turn the corner into silence. I feel lost as I open the door and run for the elevator, and with a turn of the corner, I see the doors squeeze shut.

  He will come back as he did last time, I tell myself, as there is something unfinished in his tone. There was no good-bye or mention of good-bye, I repeat to myself, walking back to the room resigned to wait out his return. He will return. As I enter, the dark wood furniture and haunting fabrics of the space seem confining and toxic left arranged in a remnant of memories that haunt as I recall the words and depth of my betrayal. I search the room looking for pieces of him left behind. He left nothing in the living room except for the lone ring box on the table, which I can’t bear to recognize. I run to the closet where all that was hanging is gone including the dress I unpacked, which he must have taken in haste. The bathroom is also empty, just the solitary washcloth where his toiletries once lay. I hold the washcloth to my face with its crusted toothpaste and fragrant scent.