by Julie Hyzy
This conversation didn’t belong at Hugo’s bar. I didn’t want to have it at a table, either. The very idea of dinner revolted me right now.
“Can we leave?” I asked.
Momentarily perplexed, he opened his mouth as though to ask why, then changed his mind and said, “Sure, where would you like to go instead?”
“Outside.” Hugo’s had become suddenly claustrophobic. I needed fresh air and I needed it now. I got off my chair and headed for the door.
“Your tab?”
“Paid for,” I said over my shoulder. Part of me didn’t want him to follow. But I needed him to. As I passed the hostess, I thanked her for holding our table and told her she could release it.
A second later I was out in the cool spring night, facing west into the orange and purple sky. This was not how things were supposed to turn out. I started walking without a destination in mind.
“Grace,” Joe called from behind me.
I stopped long enough to let him catch up.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Despite the evening’s chill, there were still plenty of people out on the street. “Not here,” I said. I walked to the corner and made a right down the first side street.
He fell into step next to me and I tried to ignore the worried glances he repeatedly threw my way. I waited until we’d walked a full block away from the busy area before I stopped.
When he faced me—concern and fear darkening his eyes—I faltered. How even to begin this conversation? There would be no easing into it like drifting into cool water at the beach. I had to dive straight into the deep and suffer its icy impact.
“You’re married,” I said.
The worry in his expression flashed instantly to shock, then sorrow, then fear. He turned his face away and covered his eyes with his hands. He pulled in a deep breath and held it before blowing it out and turning back to me.
“Are you?” I asked.
“I am,” he said.
I reacted audibly. Whether I’d realized it or not, I’d been holding out hope that it wasn’t true.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“You’re sorry.”
“This is what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.” He reached his hands out as though to keep me from bolting but stopped before actually making contact. I wouldn’t run; I intended to hear him out completely. That way there could be no question later. No rationalizing—“if he’d only been allowed to explain”—when weeks from now, doubt wormed into my brain in the middle of the night.
I would force myself to listen completely. Only then would I leave. No regrets. For either of us.
“Your wife can’t walk? She’s paralyzed?” I asked.
“No. Not at all.” He winced. “There’s more to it than that.”
“Oh?” I hated the accusatory lilt in my tone but couldn’t stop myself from applying it. “More to it, as in you’ve left her high and dry without means of support and she’s destitute?”
“She isn’t destitute.” For the first time, anger sparked in his eyes. He bit down hard on his lower lip. His hands shook. Again, he drew in a deep breath and blew it back out in a rush. “May I ask who told you all this?”
I gestured back the way we’d come. “A woman at the bar. Yolanda. She claimed to have been hired by your wife to follow you. Somehow she knew that you and I were meeting here tonight. She decided to forewarn me.”
He nodded as though this answered a question that had been nagging at him. “Was she about forty years old? This high?” He held out a hand. “Blond?”
“You’ve met her?”
“No, but our receptionist has.” He shook his head in disbelief. “While I was with a patient earlier today, this Yolanda came into the office and asked to see me. She said she didn’t have time to wait right now, but told our receptionist that she was an old friend and that our families went back years together.” He turned to the side again and made an incoherent, angry noise. “Of course our receptionist bought it. My wife has an arsenal of knowledge that this woman must have relied on to provide a convincing performance.”
Arsenal. Interesting choice of words. I remained silent.
“The receptionist—thinking she was being helpful—mentioned my plans for tonight.” He shook his head again. “She’s young. It wasn’t her fault. And when she realized that I had no idea who this woman was, she was apologetic. I didn’t think much of the situation. Not until now. Now it makes perfect sense.”
“Seems quite a lot of effort to simply ruin your evening.”
He glanced at me sharply. “If you only knew,” he said. A moment later, he softened. “I swear I had every intention of telling you the whole sordid story tonight. You should have heard this from me.”
“You’re right. But now I know,” I said. “Thank you, at least, for not lying to me. Have a good night.” I started toward home.
“Grace, wait.” He grabbed my arm lightly.
I glared. He let go.
“Please,” he said. “There’s more to the story.”
“Of course there is.” I tempered my anger and reminded myself to hear him out.
“Can we”—he glanced at our surroundings—“go somewhere quiet to talk?”
I hesitated for the briefest second. Turning my back now would not help me decide which version of Joe was the real one—the man I’d begun to get to know or the one Yolanda had described to me tonight. Truth, I’d learned, usually fell somewhere in between. The fact that he was still married was no longer the issue. There could be no relationship between us now. There would be no equivocation on that score. What I wanted to know was why he’d made an effort to connect with me when he was not free to do so.
“This way,” I said.
He didn’t say a word as I led him to a children’s playground on the next block. In the dusk the bright-colored equipment formed shadowy battlements with tall, jail-like bars.
Talking quietly at the far end, in an area meant for toddlers, three teenagers sat cross-legged in the grass at the foot of a plastic slide. Otherwise the area was empty.
One of the youngsters glanced up as we arrived. He didn’t seem particularly disturbed by our presence, but I decided to give them a wide berth and took a seat in one of the four vacant swings in the nearer, older kid section.
Joe took the swing next to me.
“It’s quiet here,” I said. “And relatively private.”
“I appreciate your understanding.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said. “You’re married, your wife is severely injured, and you’ve broken her heart by leaving her. But she isn’t destitute, so that makes it all right. Have I summed it up properly?” I came across as flippant, but I couldn’t let him hurt me more than he already had.
Tall river birch trees lined the perimeter of the park. As Joe stared up over the tops of them, he worked his jaw. “Nothing about this situation is all right,” he said.
My swing began to sway gently. I jammed a toe into the gravelly ground to stop the movement. “I agree.”
“I can’t apologize enough.” He rocked back in his swing, planting both feet on the ground, leaning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “Will you let me tell you everything?” he asked. “I mean, will you let me get it all out before you ask any questions? This is hard—very hard—for me to talk about.”
He glanced at me sideways.
I drew a breath. What choice did I have? “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” He stared down at the ground and worked his jaw again. “I’ve been in therapy since before the accident,” he said. “And even there I find it difficult to discuss everything that happened.” He shook his head and glanced toward me again.
I nodded.
“Believe me, Grace, I’m sorry.” He gave a sad smile. “And I p
romise to tell you the absolute truth.”
I swallowed and glanced over at the carefree teenagers. Two boys and a girl. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but their voices rose and dropped in animated conversation, punctuated with bursts of laughter. How long had it been since I’d spent twilight sitting with good friends under a darkening sky, believing that my future was limitless? Though the world was open to me now—in a far different way than I could have ever imagined back then—I couldn’t help but wonder: Would I ever be so relaxed again?
“Dorie and I were set up. A blind date,” Joe said. “Her cousin was engaged to one of my best friends and they decided to bring us together. I’m not blaming either of them. They thought we would made a good couple, I guess.” He frowned at some middle distance, making me wonder what he was seeing.
“Dorie was beautiful,” Joe said. “And her family is well known and respected.” He squinted up at the sky. “This next part is going to come across as cruel and angry. Vindictive, even.” He shrugged. “And maybe it is. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not as compassionate as I’d hoped to be at this point in my life.
“Dorie made me believe she was someone she wasn’t. She turned herself into a different person. Whether she was doing it to fool me or to fool herself, I don’t know.” He glanced at me again as though to gauge my reaction. “It’s harsh to say. But that’s the truth. I saw the warning signs and dismissed them. My friend—the one who set us up—tried much later to make me see that Dorie wasn’t who she pretended to be. I wouldn’t listen to him.”
He spoke, staring away as though seeing images play out before him.
“I’m not innocent here, I promise you,” he said with another sideways glance. “There’s more than enough fault to go around. I was young, and although that’s no excuse, it’s the truth. Dorie made me believe that the only thing she wanted in the world was to be married to me. To have our children. To grow old together in retirement. She loved the idea of my being a doctor. Her parents loved the idea, as well.”
I was having a tough time not asking questions. Nothing he’d told me thus far seemed very much different from what you’d find in a B-level tear-jerker. But at the end of those sagas, the couple always reconciled and went on to live happily ever after. Once the churlish husband realized the error of his ways, of course.
“I ignored my gut,” he said. “I pretended that every time she changed plans or begged out of an event at the last minute, she was being spontaneous. Or because her migraine headaches were back.” He sucked in his cheeks. “She played me on that score,” he said. “She must have memorized every possible migraine symptom because she convinced me. I’m a doctor.” He pointed both hands to his chest. “I should have known better. I should have recognized the lies.”
After a long moment, he went on, “I felt sorry for her. That she was never feeling completely well. But when she was in a good mood”—he shook his head ruefully—“she was wonderful. Everyone’s best friend. Alert, happy, confident. Too happy, as it turned out. Too confident.”
I waited.
“Drugs.” He turned to face me. “And not the prescription kind. The kind that can get you locked up.” Staring back at the ground, he went on, “We didn’t live together before we were married—her parents were dead set against that—so I missed the blatantly obvious signs. Plus, I was building my practice and not paying close enough attention. Looking back, I realize that all of her last-minute cancellations were because she was high or sick with tremors, and her parents didn’t want me to find out. They thought they could get her clean. And apparently she had gone long stretches without using. That’s when she spent the most time with me.” He raised an eyebrow and shook his head.
I couldn’t help myself. “Your friend didn’t tell you about the drugs?”
“He didn’t know. Dorie’s cousin didn’t even know. Let me rephrase that: The cousin knew Dorie had had drug problems as a teenager, but believed she’d beaten her addiction. She wanted Dorie to have a good life—one not spoiled by her past offenses—so she kept the secret from her fiancé.” He gave another wry laugh. “They wound up breaking up before their wedding, believe it or not.” Gazing up at the sky again, he said, “Smart man.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“That isn’t all of it.” He didn’t seem particularly upset that I’d interrupted even though I’d promised not to. “Once we were married—once I understood the problem—I tried to get her into rehab. Of course, her parents offered whatever financial help I needed. I think they were so utterly relieved to have someone else assume responsibility for her that they would agree to do anything to support me.”
A cool breeze washed over us, bringing with it the teenagers’ distant laughter.
“We were married for five years,” he said. “An eternity with someone as volatile as Dorie. After more attempts and failures to stop her from using than I can count, I had nothing left anymore. We signed up for counseling as a couple and as individuals.” He gave another wry smile. “I went. She refused. I felt my life slipping away.” He turned to me. “I watched her life slipping away. And I’m a doctor,” he repeated. “I’m supposed to save people, not usher them along a path to destruction.
“My therapist encouraged me to ask for a divorce. She told me that Dorie needed tough love. Something that she’d never gotten from her parents. What I couldn’t bring myself to admit to my therapist was that”—he blew out a long breath—“I couldn’t give Dorie tough love because I didn’t have any love to give. Whatever had lived between us was dead and had been for at least two years. The divorce, however? Yeah, I wanted that.”
There was truth in his words. I could feel it.
“And then, the accident.”
The crux of the story. Where he would tell me how guilty he felt for his wife’s injuries. How he may no longer love her, but he couldn’t, in good conscience, leave her.
“I asked for a divorce,” he said. “I’d already talked with my attorney. We were ready to file. I simply felt that I owed her the decency of telling her in person before putting paperwork into place. I packed up some of my things and told her that I’d be staying at a nearby hotel until we could work out an agreement.
“She freaked out.” He turned to me again, his eyes narrowed with pain. “Freaked. Out. I’m not exaggerating. She’d been drinking again—that was yet another issue—and she came at me with her fists at first, then started throwing things at me. I ran out and got into my car, hoping that she’d calm down once I left.
“I called her parents as I drove to the hotel to let them know that I was leaving their daughter. Permanently. They weren’t surprised, of course. They tried to talk me back home, but I’d hit my breaking point.
“I called them from my actual cell phone while I was driving—not via a hands-free connection. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was underestimating Dorie’s rage. And telling her where I planned to stay.”
I realized I was holding my breath.
“When I told you I was T-boned by a drunk driver, what I didn’t tell you was that the driver was my wife.”
I gasped.
“I spent a week in the hospital and six months in physical therapy. Dorie walked away from the wreck. She was too drunk, or too high, or too infuriated with me to realize she’d been hurt. When the paramedics arrived, they tried to calm her down, tried to get her into the ambulance. I was barely conscious at this point, mind you, so I’m recounting what I’ve been told. She fought them off and started running. But she was delirious and didn’t get far. She ran into oncoming traffic and got hit by a delivery truck.” He frowned down at the gravel. “Thank goodness for gapers’ blocks, I suppose. Speeds had dropped as drivers slowed to view our T-boned vehicles. Dorie could have been killed. Instead, she escaped with just a broken leg and minor injuries. She walks perfectly; she simply prefers to pretend otherwise when it serves her purpose.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again.
He faced me directly. “What does it say about me that my own wife tried to kill me? How can I even consider trying to engage in a new relationship? What if it wasn’t just the drugs that pushed her over the edge? How can I know that it wasn’t me? That she wasn’t trying to kill herself, too?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. Didn’t know if I should even try.
“I left my practice just outside Rosette and decided to start over and relocate where no one knew me. Divorce papers have been filed, but Dorie is contesting everything and her lawyer has arranged for a ridiculous amount of continuances. Dorie wants to present herself as a helpless woman who deeply loves her misguided husband and who needs him for her very survival. But the truth is she has considerable personal wealth, including a tremendous trust fund. Not to mention parents who think every problem can be solved by throwing money at it. What Dorie wants—and can no longer have—is to control me. And that infuriates her.”
The teenagers were gone. I hadn’t even seen them leave. We were alone in the chilly park on our uneven swings listening to the late-night chorus of bugs and birds around us.
“When I came to Emberstowne, I met so many great people. My colleagues, Rodriguez, you,” he said with a sad laugh. “I could say that my faith in humanity was restored, but that’s not all it was. I began to believe in myself again. I hadn’t in a very long time.”
This was too much to take in at once. I sat silently, aware that my swing was drifting back and forth ever so slightly. Even though it was dark, the park lights and the glow from the moon were enough to see that Joe was studying me, waiting for my reaction.
I didn’t know what to say. What to do. Where I fit in all this.
“I realize you’ve heard two conflicting stories tonight. Dorie’s version and mine,” he said quietly. “And there’s no way you can know which is the truth. Or if the truth lies somewhere between the two.” He echoed my very thoughts from when we first sat down. “I’m not going to try to convince you to believe me. You either do or you don’t. And I’m not going to pressure you to make that decision right now.” He half laughed. “I’m not going to pressure you to make that decision at all. What I am going to say is that I admire you, Grace. You’re kind and warm. You’re genuine. You’re direct. And I’d like the chance to see where this can go. All I ask is that you think about it.”