He was with Jane.
I knew about Jane from the phone bill. I’d seen a number on that month’s bill come up over and over again—fifteen- to forty-five-minute phone calls, always at night, always while I was at work. Frantic, I had called the number, heard her voice, and placed her immediately. I’d met her once, while David and I were dating. Although I’d hung up without confronting her, I cornered David the evening I found the bill, during my dinner break.
“Are you having an affair?” I asked him, holding the phone bill in my hand.
He rolled his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Jane’s number. It’s all over the phone bill.”
“She’s just a friend,” he said. “Do I need to ask permission to have friends?”
I was embarrassed to be “that wife,” the controlling kind of partner who doesn’t allow her husband any breathing room. I accepted his explanation and apologized.
Now, three weeks later, I felt my cheeks go red and heat rise up underneath my sweater. I would not let him turn me into a stereotype I loathed—the jealous woman. I would not suffer the indignity of sobbing, of the puffy face and the stuffy nose, the pinched look of defeat. I stiffened against the shock and the crushing blow. As I sat down, the velvet couch I’d bought for the family room felt like an ice block on my legs.
Sophie. Where’s Sophie? I let several minutes go by before I picked up the kitchen phone and called his number. “You’ve reached Mica Construction,” the recorded message intoned. I slammed the phone down. Maybe I should go to her house. Maybe I should interrupt them during sex. I walked in circles in my kitchen, then the living room, still too stunned to cry.
I turned on the TV. I called his phone again. I turned off the TV. I opened the packed fridge and stared past all the food into the bright light. Outside, normal families slept, cuddled with their loved ones. I was not normal, not now, not after this. I’d ignored my earlier inclination that something was wrong, and now every instinct in my body told me he was cheating. And he had our baby daughter with him. I felt like vomiting.
Nothing would ever be the same again. I called again and again and again. After several hours of pacing downstairs, my body shivered from cold and shock. I dragged myself upstairs to my bed and undressed. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t get up to put on pajamas; I couldn’t even stand to walk to the bathroom and brush my teeth. I crawled underneath the comforter like a wounded animal.
David finally tiptoed into the house two hours later. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, holding Sophie in his arm like a football. I hadn’t slept, couldn’t stop the images of him at Jane’s house from firing through my brain. Sophie was wrapped in a pink embroidered blanket David’s mother had given her. The look on his face said everything he would never admit to. I turned on the light, surprising him.
“Jesus,” I said, holding the sheet to my breasts. “Zip up your pants.” I could see his red boxer shorts.
“This is not my fault,” he yelled, startling me, holding Sophie with one arm while he fumbled with his zipper. His words sounded hollow and unconvincing, probably even to him. “It’s your fault. You’re never home.”
Sophie cried anxious, high-pitched wails. She needed to be changed and fed. I rose from the bed, awkwardly aware of my nakedness. I took her in my arms, walked into the nursery, and locked the door behind me. I leaned against the door, my neck and shoulders so tight I could not move.
Sophie. I took off her wet diaper, anger rising again when I saw the rash on her bottom. She stared at me, hiccupping and sniffing, before she finally calmed down. I changed her and snapped the buttons on her sleeper, my heart still pounding.
She gulped as she breastfed, hungry and still upset by the yelling. She cupped my breasts with both hands, eyes shut tight, need rising until finally she burped and fell asleep on my chest.
I sat with Sophie for what felt like hours, rocking her in the dark. My thoughts replayed every instance David had been tardy or elusive or refused eye contact when we spoke about his whereabouts. It was painfully familiar. My freshman year of college, I’d popped into a local pizzeria for a slice and saw my father sitting at the bar, holding hands with an unfamiliar blonde woman. By then, I’d heard rumors of his cheating, but it had never occurred to me that he would cheat outside my home town, so close to my school, or with someone who appeared to be half his age.
I hated the way my father blushed, how he stammered and avoided my eyes as he offered up a flimsy excuse about why he was there. I hated how his hands shook as he attempted to introduce me to the blonde woman, who was blinking like a doe about to be shot. I left before she could open her mouth.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell my mother what I’d seen. It would only wound her further. I now carried the extra burden of my mother’s suffering, a lifetime of confusion and misplaced blame over the real problem in our home, a serial cheater. Depression is often referred to as anger turned inward; my father’s first affair happened just before her mysterious breakdown. I would not, I vowed, become my mother.
Sophie’s weight on my chest was the only thing that kept me from spinning into the ether. The two of us were in the same position when the sun finally rose—trapped. I half expected the bright, cheery star might not choose to rise on such a dark day. My body felt dull and heavy, as if it had endured its own death, still breathing, not yet crying.
Two days later, David and I still hadn’t spoken, other than terse cell phone calls about the business of Sophie’s day care, her naps, the number of times he’d changed her diaper while I was at work.
I was going through the motions of a life interrupted: at home in the kitchen, preparing for another night shift away from Sophie, zipping breast milk into little bags, the humiliating ritual of mothering from a distance. I knew Sophie had refused the bottle again and again. David had insisted we keep trying. Now, I believed it was because he didn’t want me coming home on my dinner break at all, ruining his plans. David interrupted my ruminating, walking through the side door in time to take over his afternoon shift with Sophie. His hair was mussed by the wind, and his eyes were as blue as I could remember seeing them. He dropped the architectural plans he was holding and took three large steps to pull Sophie from her bouncy chair. He held her high in the sky with his big hands, her eyes widening with delight, legs kicking through her romper. David tucked her in close to him like a quarterback, preparing to run the ball, one long arm holding her head and her body. He’d held her that way first in the hospital, endearing himself to me.
I was dressed for work, but the red suit and high heels I’d put on didn’t feel like a power suit at all. In fact, it complicated the vulnerability I felt at that moment, watching the man I loved, and now also hated so much, with our child. I sat on the kitchen chair and wept in front of him, the barrier I’d carried for days breaking into a thousand tiny pieces.
“David,” I said, “I can’t bear this.”
He came to me, putting his hand on my shoulder while he balanced Sophie with his other arm.
“It won’t happen again,” he said softly. “I didn’t even sleep with her.”
I bristled. “How can you do this, David? How can you stand here, after what I saw, and lie to me? It’s worse than the affair. Really, it’s despicable.”
His eyes softened. “I promise you, I did not sleep with her. I couldn’t do it; I couldn’t go through with it.” He opened the tray to Sophie’s infant seat and snapped her in her safety belt. “You must believe me.”
I looked for something to trust, some telltale sign that he was changed by the affair. I tried to lock on his eyes, to make him say it again while I stared straight into his soul. Sophie whimpered. His eyes darted away from mine to hers. “There, there, sugar,” he said, unhooking the safety belt and lifting her from the chair. He bounced her in his arms as he soothed her. “It will be all right. It’s going to be all right.”
Several weeks later, my sister Diane came to Portland, visiting for a weekend
retreat with a Buddhist teacher. She sat in the passenger seat of my car while we drove through darkening skies, and I told her of the affair.
“Why don’t you leave him?” she asked.
I loved her for her straightforwardness. “It’s not so simple, Di,” I said defensively.
We were headed to the grocery store to buy supplies for dinner. On the way out the door that morning, David had agreed to shop for the chicken and vegetables, but I knew he’d forget, that it would slip his mind and we’d be left without anything to eat.
I found a parking spot and turned off the ignition. “I’ve played this scenario a thousand times, Diane. I’ve imagined myself alone, as a single mom, with Sophie, no relatives nearby. My closest friends are childless. The station needs me to work late, or worse, to leave on a breaking news story. Who do I call? What do I do?”
“You make a decent living,” Diane said. “More than most single women. You hire help.” Grocery carts clanked behind us, the hum of a Safeway parking lot at 6:00 p.m. Large gray clouds hung over the red neon sign. There would be rain again tonight. I wanted to get in and out before it started to pour.
“He’s trying, Di. I think I see him trying. And he loves Sophie so much.” My voice trailed off, unconvinced of my own reasoning.
“Does he love you?” she asked bluntly. “Does he work to make a true partnership? Is he responsible, honest? Does he elevate you?”
I took the keys from the ignition and gathered my purse. “I can’t say. Jesus, I really don’t know anything except it’s starting to pour.”
David showed up at home an hour later, stomping the rain from his shoes, carrying nothing but his drenched briefcase. As soon as he spotted Sophie, he dropped his briefcase on the hardwood floor, scooping her up from her blanket and smothering her with kisses. Diane kept her eyes trained on him, looking for some acknowledgment or an apology for his failure to do what he promised.
David avoided making eye contact. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” My sister exchanged a knowing glance with me about David forgetting the groceries, his unpredictability, and his aloofness. Sophie cooed with delight. Diane shook her head. My emotions were caught between the disdain Diane felt for David and the gushy love Sophie displayed. Every time I thought of Sophie without David, a loss so profound moved through my body that I thought it must be intuition trying to tell me something. I tried to channel some of the gutsiness I used at work, but failed. In this house, with Sophie, I was soft, vulnerable, and not at all ready for an abrupt transition away from David.
David beamed at Sophie, touching her head so tenderly I had to turn away. This was the type of love I’d hoped he might show me one day. I knew now it wouldn’t be possible. Sophie returned his affection with the telltale grimace all parents recognize. David laughed. “I’ll change her,” he offered.
I pulled the salad from the refrigerator. The chicken smelled done. David slapped his forehead on the way to the nursery. “Oh, the groceries. I’m so sorry, honey; I totally forgot.”
Diane rolled her eyes, turned, and left the room.
Somehow, we made it through the fall, a blur of work and diapers and me concentrating on the small, magical accomplishments Sophie made every day. I found my purpose in the simple acts of mothering, strapping on the baby pack in the morning and only taking it off for her naps.
We took long, lovely walks together through the park, with Sophie cooing in a tone so delightful it made me smile just to hear her voice. I loved to change her diapers, to bathe and talk and sing to her. The two of us shared as much communication as I needed at the time. Mothering taught me just how much capacity my heart carried. Even though I was sleeping only six hours a night, I woke easily and enthusiastically, eager to see what new accomplishment Sophie might take on during our days together. She was bright eyes and beautiful sounds by now, babbling early and often and pushing herself up off chubby arms to rock back and forth on her haunches, preparing to crawl. I talked or sang with her throughout the day until my dialogue was drowned out by her happy noises, “ba, ba, ba,” and “da, da, da.” At six months, she had an enormous appetite, with two early teeth to help her chew everything from squash to small bits of chicken and steak. At Thanksgiving, her eyes lit up when she tasted mashed potatoes and gravy for the first time. I kept reading ahead in the baby book to try to keep up with her not-so-minor miracles. The more I loved Sophie, the less I needed of David. The more I concentrated on Sophie, the less I needed to address the pain of my marriage. It was the only defense I had, or so I reasoned. Did I know I was compartmentalizing? Probably. Did I ever imagine it would turn out so disastrously? No, never.
We spent Christmas vacation at my parents’ new home in Utah, a sprawling, beautiful house with dozens of windows framing a view of the Great Salt Lake. A series of snowstorms kept the snowplows humming throughout the day. More than two feet of snow was already piled on the front lawn, making perfect conditions for cross-country skiing. My mother assured us Sophie would be fine. “Go, go, have fun, you two. I’ve done this a few times, you know.” David and I exchanged a glance, his more hopeful than my own. We were still being cautious with one another, tentative and polite. But David had never owned up to his affair. And I still mistrusted him.
David and I loaded up our skis and drove in silence to the mountain. Settlement Canyon was such a special place for me. Growing up, I’d spent hundreds of days riding through the passes there. The canyon was the place where I was first kissed. It was where our high school cheerleading squad hiked to light the “T” before the homecoming festivities. It was a place teeming with memories of a more innocent time.
The city had installed a new, heavy gate made of steel, with a small opening for bikes and pedestrians at the entrance to the canyon. Most of the locals were irked by it; people in my hometown were hunters and outdoorsmen who would have preferred to drive their trucks through the canyon, shooting at game. The gate kept out motorized vehicles, and the wildlife had flourished. The snow was untracked in front of us. David headed out in front of me, making long, strong strides with his skis. I followed behind in his tracks.
Because he was raised in Canada, the cold temperatures suited him perfectly. When the temperatures dropped below twenty, David’s cheeks grew rosy and his ears got bright, but his hands or feet never got cold. An hour into our ski, I started to feel the sting of frostnip on my fingers and toes. “We should probably turn around,” I said. “I’m starting to get really cold.”
David’s bright expression drooped, his hat slightly lopsided on his head. “Really?” he asked. “Can’t we just go a bit farther up the road?”
I didn’t want to disappoint him. We’d had such a hard time the past few weeks, and seeing him happy again, looking so relaxed and healthy, made me happy as well. I wanted to bottle that look, that feel, and take it back home with us. I wiggled my fingers inside my mittens. “Okay,” I said, “another half hour or so?”
He nodded appreciatively and then skied toward me to offer a huge hug. “Thank you, honey.”
We started off up the road together, but David soon pulled out in front. I followed behind in his fresh tracks. His long arms reached out gracefully, his legs moving powerfully between each stride. The snow crunched against our skis, but other than that there was virtually no sound. The mountains were quieted by the snow, blanketed by a cover of powdery white layers. The sun dropped slowly behind the western mountains; I started to shiver, even as I skied faster to try to create more heat.
Suddenly, David stopped in his tracks ahead of me. “Shhh,” he said.
I tried to look for what he’d seen that made him stop so abruptly. The trees were empty. A trail of rabbit tracks took off from the left of us. The setting sun cast long, spooky shadows on the deep ravines and gullies; there was nothing moving as far as I could tell.
David pointed to the grove of aspen trees to our right. “There. Do you see it?”
I strained my eyes, my toes numb from cold, my nose stin
ging from exposure. “See what?” I asked, wishing more than anything that I could turn around and ski as fast as I could home to the safety and warmth of my parents’ home.
“See?” he said. “Right there.” His glove pointed to three o’clock. I squinted harder.
There it was, camouflaged perfectly in its perch, a great horned owl staring out at us, with the biggest golden eyes I’d ever seen on a bird. Its eyebrows were slanted narrowly at us, its head cocked, mottled brown wings tucked to its side.
“Shhh,” David said. He clicked himself out of his skis and slowly, tenderly, took baby steps toward the owl. The owl fluttered its wings, turning its head abruptly to keep its eyes on David, preparing for its escape. Its prominent ear tufts seemed calculating and alert.
David took another step, then another, his weight placed so tenderly he barely made a sound in the snow. He was within a couple of feet of the bird. I’d never seen anything like it. The bird startled me with a deep hooting sound: Hoo-h-hoo-hoo-hoo. The sound echoed through the canyon. I caught myself gasping out loud.
From somewhere deep in the tree grove, a loud raspy screech returned the call, the owl’s young crying for its mother. The owl looked again at David and then lifted off, its beautiful wings spanning nearly sixty inches. It soared so fast, so precisely, I lost sight of it almost immediately. It was one of the many times David took me to the extremes of his world: places of profound beauty and magic, with little miracles that came along only when I gave up any sense of control. David caught the look of ecstatic gratitude on my face and smiled.
There would be other adventures we shared that would not end so magically. David’s insistence at hiking “off-trail” in the Columbia Gorge left him covered in poison oak boils, big red oozing sores that took weeks to heal. Somehow, Sophie and I escaped the allergic reaction to the same poisonous plants.
All the Things We Never Knew Page 5