“A complication?”
“Yes. A lover.”
“A lover other than your wife?”
“Yes.”
“A lover your wife knows nothing about? A mistress then?”
Ray nods.
“When did this happen?”
“A month ago,” he says. “Maybe a little bit more than a month.”
“Do you love your wife?”
“Yes,” he says. “I think we’ve already established this.”
“And do you love this lover? This additional woman?”
Ray hesitates, then shrugs. His mouth, a tight line of resignation. He has no idea about loving Nancy.
“This is a problem,” Madame Chernakov says. “This is a difficulty for you.”
“It’s exhausting,” Ray says. “And difficult.”
“Exhausting?” Madame Chernakov sits up straighter in her chair.
“Yes. I’m exhausted by it. Just thinking about it is exhausting.”
“What, in particular, is exhausting?”
“The lies. I am constantly lying to myself, and everyone in my life, and when I’m not lying, I’m denying. And when I’m not denying, I’m trying to convince myself that I’m not some despicable asshole with no honour or decency.”
“Do you know why you have this extra woman?”
“Why do you call her that?”
“What do you want to call her?”
“Jesus, I don’t want to call her anything. I want to deny that she’s real. I want to pretend I haven’t done anything with her.”
“Why do you think you see this woman?”
“What?”
“Just the first thing that comes to mind.”
“The first thing? Sex.”
“It’s better? Or different?”
“No. It happens.”
“Sex happens? You mean you are not having sex with your wife?”
“Once or twice a year, and honestly, it’s so complicated. It’s become such an ordeal that it’s almost become more bother than it’s worth. It’s not fun anymore. It’s not playful. It used to be playful.”
“Okay.”
“And with Nancy it’s easy and lovely.”
“Nancy is her name?”
“Yes.”
“You’d like love-making to be this easy and lovely with your wife?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how to make that happen. There’s so much shit piled up. So much that we’ve said. And not said. It’s all sitting there.”
“Okay.” Madame Chernakov focuses her writing. She writes and Ray waits.
“What do you feel for this extra woman?”
He’s not sure how he feels about Madame calling Nancy an extra woman. There’s too much honesty in it and it grates on him. “What do you mean, feel?”
“What do you feel for her? Desire? Love? Excitement?”
“I mostly think that anything is possible. When I am with her, it’s as if anything could be possible. There are no walls. No barriers.”
“Okay, but what do you feel?”
“Honestly, I feel excited most of the time. So desire. I think it’s mostly desire.”
“How do you think she feels about you?”
“Feels about me?”
“Yes. Could you make a guess?”
“She probably likes me. I suppose she thinks I’m swell.”
“Swell?”
Ray looks at his therapist. She appears to be surprised and appalled. As if she was not expecting him so use the word ‘swell’ and having heard it, she is disgusted.
He half-smiles. “Are you judging me?”
“No. But I think you’re bullshitting me. I think you do not want to consider this woman’s feelings at all. You are denying her feelings. You’re denying her humanity because you feel guilty.”
Ray looks at the therapist, her neutral face and penetrating eyes. She’s got her hand clasped around a pair of reading glasses that hang from a cord around her neck. He wants to ask her if there was a question in that bundle of pronouncements, or if she was just summing up. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that Nancy is just about having sex with a pretty woman. It’s certainly not about her feelings. It’s not about feelings at all. He actually doesn’t care about Nancy. It’s nothing but sex. And that means he is an incredibly shallow, stupid person, and he does not want to think about that. He prefers the Woody Allen assertion that sex without love is a meaningless experience, but as far as meaningless experiences go it’s pretty damn good. He does not want to talk about his own shallowness. Nor does he want to talk about guilt. God damn Madame Chernakov for arriving at the truth so quickly. She’s nodding at him now, as if she can see that he’s figured it out – as if she knows she’s right. He’s not going to give her that certainty. “I think you could be right,” he says. “But it would have been nice to have arrived there on my own.”
“You want me to act like a therapist.”
“Yes. You know, ask those gentle, probing questions and then eventually, I arrive at the truth?”
“Life is short,” she says. “Break the rules and move forward.”
* * *
A month ago, Ray parked outside Madame Chernakov’s building and for the first time in a year, hesitated when he thought about going inside. He wondered if he needed this session.
Madame Chernakov is intently making coffee. She is sitting at the table and there is a small white timer at her elbow. She is making a French press of coffee and she is waiting for the timer to go off, at which point she will stir the coffee, plunge the screen to the bottom of the carafe, and pour.
She looks across the room at Ray. “What are you going to do with this extra woman?”
“Madame, have I ever called her the extra woman?”
“No, you have not. But this is what she is to you. You have said you will not leave your wife, so what is it that you are doing?” The therapist smiles. “Things have to move, my dear. Things must always be moving.”
“The end is near for the extra woman,” Ray says. “I can feel it coming to an end.”
“Do you think she will be fine with this?”
“These things always end. They don’t last.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Madame Chernakov stares at him, waits for an answer and he does not give her one.
* * *
The first time, Ray meets Nancy in a hotel room, which she insists on arranging. He takes the afternoon off and knocks on the door of 1740. He remembers the colour of the carpet in the hallway was grey and he remembers hesitating before knocking on the door. She is wearing only a garter and stockings, which would not have worked had they been any colour other than white. It was as if she had done nothing special – this was how she always dressed. She kisses him and they fall onto the bed. She is ravenous, as if she is starving. They discover each other inside a sort of desperate flurry of kissing. There is champagne in a bucket beside the bed, which they drink, and after an hour, they order more.
Ray is not looking for it, but there is one disquieting moment that threatens to tip him over. It is the picture of a sexual shiver. It is the thing that anchors his lust to this woman. It is a thing that cannot be planned, or arranged. The sheets and blankets are all on the floor. She is slouched against the headboard, her knees pulled up, and he is opening the second bottle of champagne. His back is to her. He pops the cork, turns around and there is the perfect picture of her readiness – the slumped curve of her breasts in the late afternoon light, the way the empty champagne flute in her hand is tilted, carelessly – and the tone of her skin against the white top-sheet – all of this takes his breath. Everything going on in that moment added to the picture – the heady scent of sex in the room, the anticipation of pleasure, and more champagne. This moment is the thing he chases for the next year. It is the
thing he will recall ten years in the future. It will always make him feel a little lost and it will always ache. It is ground-zero for love, or in-love-ness, lust, or desire – it doesn’t matter what it’s called. Perhaps it is a little like trying to describe jazz.
“Are you going to stand there like a statue or pour?” she said. “Come over here.” She spoke in Russian. She was a little tipsy and happy, and she forgot for a moment where she was.
“What?” he said. “What did you say?”
“I said, you look beautiful standing over there.’”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Chapter 4
Tulah at 38
Tulah’s Snow Journal
Sunday, January 13, 2013 #401
Sometimes snow is not beautiful. Sometimes it is just hard to be in it, and it is bitterly cold. But it is not the snow’s fault. It’s me who makes the snow beautiful, or ugly. It’s always me. I bring my sensibilities to it. The snow is a thing. I make it lovely, or gentle, or kind. I personify it. Maybe I shouldn’t.
This storm has come from the east. It’s managed to stop almost everything. Power lines are down across the city. We still have power. The girls are watching a movie.
I stepped out on the back porch for a few seconds to feel it. It’s a stringent cold and the snow is heavy – it was rain before it was snow, and it was above zero before it was freezing. That’s why the lines are down, and why tree branches are breaking. The ice covered the branches and then a heavy wet snow.
It’s luxurious and powerful. It is not the kind of snow that sucks the humidity from the air. Instead, it feels silky on her face – cold and silky. Tulah steps back from the snow and pours a glass of wine. She’s bundled up in a down coat and scarf, sitting on the front porch and enjoying her wine. Ray is working with the power company – he’s out with a city truck, trying to save as many trees as possible while the crews restore power.
Tulah has marking to do, and a lesson plan to develop for next week – she’s been teaching a drama class and feels she is out of her element. Patience has a grade 4 teacher who is not a good teacher – she is unprepared, she digresses and she seems to have no inclination to get her students’ knowledge level to the point where they are capable of moving forward. She seems to be just trying to get through the year. Tulah is horrified by this so-so teacher, and offended. She won’t make waves but she’s going to make sure Patience gets everything she needs to move forward. Also, love-making is on her mind. She is worried about love-making. It’s been eight-and-a-half months since she and Ray made love, and he has stopped asking. He’s stopped trying and so has she. There’s scant intimacy between them and she knows this is not good. They have children. They parent. They work jobs. They come home exhausted and they sleep. She knows how much calmer she feels after they make love, how much more she feels for Ray, and yet they don’t make time for it. She tries to imagine Ray with a mistress and can’t fathom it.
All these things are cycling through her head, but it is snowing and this changes things. At least, it should change things. This snow that has caused power outages and broken trees, and a gridlocked city, is not kind. Tulah knows it’s her who makes the snow magic and beautiful – and there will be snow that helps make that happen, and then there will be snow like this. The bad teacher, and her lack of a love life are colouring this snow. She can’t push past her life to find the magic. She thinks the wine will help. She hopes the wine will make the world more beautiful.
Ray doesn’t touch her anymore. He keeps to himself. She is growing accustomed to the view of his back in bed. He used to love fondling her breasts, for no reason except they felt good, and now, nothing. He used to caress her body in bed – he would move his hand along the outline of her body and then sometimes, they would make love. He doesn’t do that anymore. The possibility that he has lost interest in her is real. Maybe she has failed to be interesting enough.
* * *
It’s early April when they take Sarah to the doctor with swollen glands and an unusual lack of energy. They don’t tell her that the options are mononucleosis or leukemia. They drive home with the radio tuned to satellite pop. She’s eight years old, for Christ’s sake. They just tell her that she’s sick and they’re doing some tests to find out why, or what it is. Her glands are swollen, and she’s lethargic and tired.
Mono is also known as kissing disease, and while Sarah is appalled by this idea – because she hasn’t kissed anyone expect her parents and her sister – she secretly kind of likes it. The fact she is suspected of kissing a boy will be a little thrilling for her. Her doctor will say it was likely something innocent, like a shared water fountain at school. Tylenol and rest is the extent of the treatment, and limited contact sports for a few months, which suites Sarah fine. She’s a reader and she will be encouraged to read a lot more than she already does. She will spend her days lolling around the house, reading and watching TV. When she complains about feeling achy, they will give her Tylenol. All this if it’s mono.
Ray and Tulah try to act normal, but they are both living in the land of ‘What if?’ Tulah’s mom comes over and pampers Sarah. Ray and Tulah do not tell her about the options. They both try to carry on as if everything is mostly fine. But it doesn’t last. Tulah arranges a few days off, and Ray only lasts a half-day at work. He’s with a crew in the downtown core that is taking out trees that will be replaced. The trees are either diseased or damaged beyond repair, and Ray can’t focus. One of his girls is sick and it could be bad. He can’t work. He’s going to drop someone out of a tree or he’s going to fall out of a tree. He’s distracted. He does not ask permission to go home. He just tells his crew he’s taking the rest of the day – a family matter.
He and Tulah hold each other. “We will deal with whatever comes,” Ray says. “And we will come through. Sarah will be fine. No matter what, she will be fine.” They crawl into bed and talk until they’re hoarse. They try not to get ahead. The doctors don’t know anything. It’s a blood test and then they’ll know. Until then, it’s only mono. It’s kissing disease. That’s all it is. They tell each other this but then they hold onto each other because they are afraid. Ray wakes up at 3 a.m. He checks on both girls and makes tea. He finds a Western on TV – a movie called Silverado, which is partly a Western and partly a send-up of all Westerns. At 4:15 a.m., Tulah snuggles in beside him. They watch with glazed eyes – focused but not focused, following the movie and not really seeing anything. They drift in and out of sleep until Patience wakes them up at 7:30 a.m. The alarm in their bedroom woke her up.
“Can you get Sarah up, Patience? Tell her we’re making breakfast.” Tulah flops over onto the couch and her cheek finds the cool leather.
Patience scurries down the hallway and in a few minutes both girls appear at the kitchen bar. Ray places bowls in front of them. He looks at Sarah. Notices the bags under her eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“About the same. But my throat is sore.”
“If you want to go back to bed you can,” Ray says. “Or, you can have ice cream and bananas for breakfast.”
“Yes, please,” Sarah says.
“Me too,” Patience says.
“Me three.” Tulah has joined them at the bar.
Ray drives Patience to school and Tulah tucks Sarah into their bed. She throws a load of wash into the machine and sets the timer. In the shower she thinks about how she is going to fill her day with activities so she does not constantly worry about Sarah. Because she will speculate and think about worst-case scenarios. She will worry herself into believing it’s bad news. She will go online and scare herself shitless with half-facts and symptomatic medical diagnosis sites. She will allow herself to become a pathetic wreck. If she does not keep herself busy, this is what will happen. She knows this about herself.
Ray brings home three massive bottles of Orangina because he knows Sarah loves it, and she’s suppos
ed to drink a lot.
* * *
Nothing mattered but Sarah. For three days, as they waited to hear about the results of the blood test, nothing mattered. Making love or not making love, good teachers or bad, jobs and friends; all these things shifted toward irrelevant. These details of a life became dandelion fluff floating around in a big empty room.
They get the call on the third morning.
“It’s mono,” Tulah whispers after she hangs up, and they collapse into each other in tears. They hold on as a wave of relief pounds against them and through them.
* * *
Two weeks later, one of her kids brings it up in class and she doesn’t have the heart to shut him down. She doesn’t want to be hard. She has been trying to be less rigid about things. She’s not up to it this morning.
“What about the creation theory?” Brad Bucknell’s face is earnest and it appears he really wants an answer – he’s not just poking the teacher bear with a pointy stick.
“You mean the creation story?”
Brad Bucknell has no idea. He only knows he’s heard the term creation theory and so this is what he repeats. This is what he says he believes. There is no distinction between story and scientific theory for him. Creation is true and that’s all he knows – it’s all he’s been told.
“We don’t cover that in this class,” Tulah says.
“But we believe…”
“…it’s not in the curriculum, so we don’t cover it,” Tulah says as gently as she can. “Okay? Now, I believe we were talking about how scientific knowledge is developed and tested. How does a scientific theory differ from our everyday understanding of the idea of a theory?” Tulah looks around the room. “Anyone?”
But Brad Bucknell is not finished with her yet. He stands up and his voice booms in the room. “In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”
Tulah sighs. “Mr. Bucknell. First of all, you raise your hand if you want to say something in my class, and secondly, this is not a Bible school. It’s a science class. If you want to stand up and shout Bible verses I suggest you save it for Sunday service. Now, sit down.” Her voice becomes hard and raspy.
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