“Mrs. Carlson, wait, please,” Melanie called out after her.
Sharon ignored the summons as she hurried down the hall and away from her husband’s mistress. She slipped into the ladies’ room and locked the door behind her before breaking down into hysterical sobs. Her thoughts came fast and furious. It was now clear that her marriage was over. The fact that John had picked someone so totally different was a blunt and direct admission that he no longer desired her.
For weeks she had tried to envision his lover. From blond waif to redhead temptress to raven-locked socialite, Sharon pictured her in a hundred variations of height and bust size, age and hair color, but never had it entered her mind…`never would she have believed that John would betray her with a black woman.
The rush of feelings overwhelmed her. Surprise, outrage, defeat—the list was long and distressing. The news that John was having an affair had been devastating enough, but the fact that his mistress was African-American seemed to make it even worse. Somehow it made more sense that John would have an affair with a woman who was younger, richer, or prettier than her. Who couldn’t understand a man losing his mind over a supermodel? But choosing Jax over her made Sharon feel like a big loser in this crazy game of three’s a crowd.
Sharon had to admit that she was very pretty for a black woman—petite, well groomed, glowing brown skin, beautiful eyes and lips. There was a compelling exoticness about Jax that was in direct contrast to Sharon’s WASPy whiteness. If that’s what John desired in a woman, what could she do? She could make herself look younger, thinner, and even change her eye and hair color, but how could she change her race?
What about this black girl is so unbelievable that he would risk his marriage? Sharon wondered. And what could they possibly have in common? They were of two different ethnic groups, two different cultures, and apparently two different generations. Jay-Z and Billy Joel didn’t go together. Nor did black-eyed peas and Beef Wellington. But they were obviously in love—her letters had made that point very clear.
Sharon did not want to acknowledge how much John’s liaison with a woman of color shocked, disappointed, and embarrassed her. She revisited the scene she had just witnessed. Jax’s dark hand holding John’s pale one. The contrast of her brown face as she reached down to kiss his white skin. She never really examined her feelings about interracial dating because it had never impacted her life before. But that woman with her husband? The idea offended her.
How could John fall in love with her? she wondered as anger and humiliation stepped up to replace her confusion and dismay. Ugly questions, steeped in deeply buried racism, continued to nag Sharon’s brain and worm their way into her heart. Did he take her out in public? Do any of our friends know he has a black girlfriend?
Sharon was ashamed to admit that there was a remote corner of her heart that almost wished John would die before he had the chance to dump her. In death, she’d be his widow instead of his humiliated ex-wife. She wouldn’t be subject to the sad and sorry whispers of how he’d left her to be with a black woman. She wouldn’t be the butt of jokes about her husband preferring his sugar brown.
Sharon stepped closer to the sink and took a long look at the woman in the mirror, disgusted by what she saw. The woman staring back was not only a weak and defective wife, but a racist as well. She had failed twice—once as a spouse, and then as a human being.
A knock on the door temporarily brought an end to Sharon’s pity party. “Be just a minute,” she said as she quickly blew her nose and fixed her face. She reached for the doorknob and froze. What if Jax was standing on the other side waiting for some sort of I-don’t-care-if-you-are-his-wife-he’s-mine confrontation?
“Sharon, are you in there?” Gwen Robinson’s voice came through the door.
Sharon breathed a sigh of relief as she opened the door. She nearly knocked Gwen over as she rushed out of the bathroom and headed toward the elevator.
“Where are you going? Are you okay? What’s wrong? Is it John?” The questions fell out of Gwen’s mouth one after another, landing on deaf ears. “Sharon, what is the matter with you?”
“I saw her…`Jax…she was in the room with John. She kissed him,” Sharon said before bursting into tears.
“Honey, I’m sorry. What did she say?”
“Nothing. We just looked at each other. I ran away and she came after me, but I wouldn’t stop. Gwen…`she’s…”
“She’s what?”
“Black.” Sharon looked at her best friend’s face, unable to judge if Gwen’s look of surprise was due to her news or to a politically incorrect reaction. “I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does,” she admitted.
Silence fell between them, neither knowing what to say. Gwen took her friend’s arm and guided her into the stairwell to afford them some privacy.
“I hate him. I hate him,” Sharon declared with mounting resolve. At this moment she despised her husband more than ever. Hated him for putting her in this uncomfortable position of questioning herself as a woman, a wife, and a person. For bringing her deep insecurities to the surface and making her confront feelings and issues of race she’d never before bothered to examine.
“Why? Because you think he picked a black woman over you?”
“No! Yes…maybe. I’m not prejudiced, but I can’t help feeling like I’ve been slapped in the face. How could he love her over me?”
“If she were brunette and white, would you be saying the same thing?” Gwendolyn asked.
Sharon stood, playing with her wedding ring nervously while taking a moment to dredge up her true feelings. “I don’t think so. Somehow that makes more sense to me, and is not so final. He obviously wants someone totally different than me. How can I compete with a black woman? I can’t. So it’s over.”
“First of all, it isn’t a competition. His choice has nothing to do with you or your self-worth, and second, we all have racist feelings and thoughts, and situations like this shock them to the surface. It’s just unfortunate that you’re having to deal with the cracks in your marriage at the same time.”
“I’ve got to get out of here,” Sharon decided, unwilling to explore her complicated feelings in public. The two walked back into the corridor and stood in silence as they waited for the elevator. The quiet continued as they rode down to the ground floor, neither woman knowing what to say in this confusing and complex situation.
Melanie sat in the lobby, her eyes directed toward the bank of elevators. She’d decided to wait, feeling she owed it to John to explain her presence and their relationship to his wife. It was apparent that John’s accident could not have been more mistimed. He’d obviously never had the opportunity to talk to Sharon, to tell her how much he loved her and wanted to work things out.
The doors on the far left opened and as the women advanced Melanie felt herself tensing, unable to take her eyes off of John’s mate. Sharon looked different than she’d imagined. She was elegant but not glamorous and definitely not the society maven Mel had envisioned. She was dressed in expensive beige slacks, a baby blue cashmere sweater set, and comfortable Ferragamo loafers. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her makeup was simple and natural. So natural, in fact, Mel could see the dark circles under her swollen and red eyes and other telling signs of stress and worry. Melanie felt compelled to reach out. She did not want today’s visit to make the situation between Sharon and John any more tense than it must already be.
“Mrs. Carlson,” Mel said as they come closer. “We’ve never met. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Sharon replied, cocking her head slightly to the left.
Her venomous tone sent an anxious chill through Melanie, freeze-drying her brain and, along with it, her ability to think. Should she apologize? If so, for what? Though sensitive to Sharon’s pain, Mel could not bring herself to feel wrong about her feelings for the woman’s husband.
“If you have a minute, I’d really like to talk with you.”
“I have nothing to say to y
ou. Haven’t you done enough to ruin my life? Why are you stalking me?”
“I’m not stalking you. I came to see John.”
“Why? You don’t belong here, I don’t care if you are his lover.”
“But that’s why we need to talk. You don’t understand everything. I think I can help you—”
“I understand enough,” Sharon said, angrily cutting her off. “I am not interested in anything you have to say and I certainly don’t need any help from you. So stop flaunting your miserable existence in my face. And don’t you dare show up at this hospital again or I’ll call the police and have you charged with harassment.” Sharon stormed away, leaving Melanie and Gwen in the lobby.
“John and I weren’t having an affair,” Melanie told the woman, steeling herself for another verbal assault.
“Sure didn’t look that way by the letters you wrote or the kiss you just delivered,” Gwen countered.
“It was a kiss on the forehead. I swear to you, John loves her. She’s the only woman he wants and I have to let her know that.”
“Now is not the time. Maybe later. She’s dealing with a lot right now.”
“I know. Please take this,” Melanie said, handing Gwendolyn her business card. “Will you give it to her and tell her if she wants to talk to call me?”
Gwen accepted the card and slid it into her jacket pocket. “I have to say either you’re the gutsiest girlfriend I’ve ever seen or you’re telling the truth.”
“I am telling the truth,” Mel said, looking her directly in the eye. “And Sharon needs to know that before she says or does something she’ll regret.”
“You did what?” Francesca screamed. Melanie pulled the phone away from her ear and her sister’s surprised and disapproving voice.
“After she saw me in John’s room she was pretty upset, so I waited for her in the lobby.”
“That was really a mean thing to do.”
“How so? I just wanted to talk with her and explain the situation. She has it all wrong,” Mel said as the frustration began to rise up her chest.
“Come on, Melanie. The poor woman finds out that her husband has been having an affair one day before he has an accident that puts him in a coma. Then she shows up at the hospital only to find the ‘other woman’ by his bedside, holding hands with her man. Stand in her pumps for a minute. How do you think she must feel?”
“You know what? I’m really sorry about all this, but does anyone give a damn about how I feel?” Melanie exploded with an anger she hadn’t realized she was harboring. “She’s allowed to grieve and her friends and family are rallying around her with all their love and sympathy. She doesn’t have to make up excuses to explain why she’s so concerned. She can pick up the phone and call any number of people and talk about John. What about me? People know me as his colleague. Not his confidante or close friend. I’m John Carlson’s big secret. I turn to my family for support and all I get is a lecture about how I have no business being a part of his life. And for the last time, goddamn it, we weren’t having an affair.”
“Melanie, I know this is tough on you, but you have to know that seeing you hurt her. And you also have to know that you might be part of his life, but you aren’t a part of his family. That is a huge and defining difference. And you’ve got to come out of this dream world and realize that it doesn’t matter what you want to call it, to the rest of us who aren’t living so lofty in the Universe, it looks like you are having an affair with the man. You said it yourself—you’re his secret, which last I recall means something hidden or clandestine or concealed. So, if you two truly believed that you were just friends, why all the hiding?”
Melanie had no retort that would make sense to her sister or to Sharon Carlson. She could only concur with John’s thoughts in his farewell letter. The world was not ready for a love like theirs. It was funny how far society had come and so sad how very far it still had to go. Thanks to the martyrs and heroes that had insisted on living life on their terms, interracial relationships, interfaith, and even gay marriages were now tolerated. But the idea of an intimate and loving bond between a man and a woman separate and apart from their spouses was still an objectionable blemish on the face of morality.
Melanie found no comfort in her conversation with Francesca, but she came to two important realizations. First, Franti was right: No matter how she and John labeled their relationship, the minds and hearts of most of the world were too small to see anything other than scandal. And second, based on Sharon’s reaction, she could never tell Will about John Carlson.
Chapter 27
Sharon walked through the guest bedroom, picking up Amanda’s wet towels and dirty clothes. The girl had been staying with her since John’s accident and in so many ways she behaved like a typical teenager. Messy room, music blaring, dirty dishes left all over the house. These were the things that, while vaguely annoying, also let Sharon know that Mandy was behaving like a normal teenager and not a young woman, who in less than five weeks was about to give birth.
Amanda’s presence was also a blessing, helping to keep her mind off John and their situation. It had been forty-two days since the car crash, and he still had not regained consciousness and his prognosis remained uncertain. For Sharon it was like living a life sentence in purgatory. Since the day before his accident, her entire existence had become a wait-and-see proposition. While the world and all its inhabitants were spinning ahead, Sharon felt like she was standing still, glued to the exact spot where her life had begun to fall apart.
The base of this adulterous interracial triangle was an agonizing position. Since her encounter at the hospital with Jax, a.k.a. Melanie Hitts, as she learned from the business card the woman had the audacity to give Gwen, Sharon felt more depressed than ever. Their meeting had been an agonizing and disappointing personal exposé. She simply could not understand how her husband could fall in love with a woman who was 180 degrees different than him and his lifestyle. She tried to push the racial aspect out of the way and deal with the more important realities of the situation, but like a boulder blocking the road to her happiness, it refused to budge.
Sharon began to strip the bed and wondered about the last time she’d been happy. Really happy. She thought back through her childhood and teen years but no truly joyful memories jumped out. Oh, there were times when she felt pleased and mollified but never full of bliss. The day she married John perhaps came the closest, but none before and certainly none since. In truth, her melancholy attitude had been wrapped in a veneer of false pleasure for as long as she could remember.
As she snapped the top sheet into the air and watched it float toward the bed, Sharon realized that she was a master at faking happiness. She’d learned as a child to smile pretty, suck up disappointment, and expect nothing from anybody, especially the ones who were supposed to love her best. It was her grandparents who drilled into her head that self-sacrifice was admirable, self-gratification a sin. And as long as you went with the program—any program other than your own—the people you loved would continue to love you and keep coming back. But they didn’t. Eventually they all left for good. Her parents had. Then her grandparents. And now John.
Like Chicken Little, Sharon felt like the sky was falling, raining down on her head all the personal revelations and pent-up anger that she’d spent years burying deep inside. She was angry at her parents, angry at John, and most of all angry at herself for being too weak to be her own woman. Living life through her husband meant that Sharon never had to summon the courage to identify and pursue her own desires. She’d spent a lifetime giving herself away in order to make others happy. And now she felt whittled down to nothing.
“Sharon, I’m ready if you are,” Amanda called up the stairs, interrupting Sharon’s painful introspection.
“I’ll be right down.” Sharon smoothed out the comforter and walked into the hallway, thinking about the young girl downstairs who had entered her life and opened her eyes. Even as a teenager, Amanda Weiss was practicall
y fearless. She was not afraid to live life on her own terms, regardless of what her parents or anyone else thought. Most of all, she was not afraid to make blunders, endure the consequences, and move on. She knew at sixteen what Sharon was just learning at forty-five—that mistakes were not mistakes until you repeated them. Until then they were simply lessons to be learned.
Curiosity caused Sharon to step lightly and quickly down the stairs. She was keenly interested in what conclusion Amanda had come to concerning the future of her baby. They had talked for weeks about the various options available, and now, with the arrival of both her child and parents imminent, it was time to finalize her decision.
Amanda still didn’t know that her folks had been aware of their daughter’s pregnancy for some time now. Nor did she realize that she was living with Sharon with their permission. Despite Mandy’s refusal to disclose her condition, Sharon hadn’t felt right about keeping the Sarbains in the dark about such a monumental event in their young daughter’s life. She’d been in periodic touch with Catherine since Christmas and found the woman rather frosty and unfeeling. It amazed Sharon that Amanda, such a bundle of empathetic warmth and worldly exhilaration, was the product of such a compassionless and self-centered woman.
Regardless of Catherine’s attitude, Sharon was glad she’d followed her instincts and made the call. Amanda’s mother had been livid about the pregnancy. She first tried to unsuccessfully blame Sharon for not convincing her child to have an abortion. Sharon was appalled that Catherine would relinquish such moral responsibility on a woman who’d known her child less than a year. Even after hearing the full story, Catherine placed all fault squarely on Amanda’s shoulders. It never crossed her mind that if she was home being a mother instead of gallivanting all over the Orient with her third husband, this might have never happened.
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