I Will Find You(81)

I shake my head. “I didn’t kill him, Cheryl.”

“I wish so much that was true.”

The words sting more than I would have imagined. She looks down. Pain etches its way onto her face. I don’t want to go there, not now, not ever, but I can’t help myself.

“Why did you give up on me, Cheryl?”

I hear the pathetic whine in my voice and hate myself for it.

“I didn’t,” she says. “Not ever.”

“How could you think I did it?”

“I never blamed you. Not really.”

I open my mouth to ask again why she stopped believing in me, but I make myself stop. Again: Now is not the time to go down that road. Stay focused.

“He’s alive,” I say a little more firmly, and then: “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. I need to ask you something. Then I’ll leave you be.”

The pity on her face is so cruel. “What is it, David? What do you need from me?”

“Your visit to Berg Reproductive,” I say.

The pity turns to confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“That clinic, the one you visited.”

“What about it?”

“It has something to do with what happened to Matthew.”

She takes a step back. “What…no, it doesn’t.”

“That picture Rachel showed you? It was taken at a company event. For Berg Reproductive. It’s connected.”

Cheryl shakes her head. “No.”

I say nothing.

“How can you think that?”

“Just tell me, Cheryl.”

“You know everything.”

“You didn’t tell me you pretended to be Rachel.”

“She told you that?”

No need for me to reply.

“I don’t understand.” Again, Cheryl’s eyes squeeze shut, as though she’s wishing it all away. “What does that matter now?” Her voice is more a plea than a question. The pain is growing, consuming her. I want to offer some kind of comfort, even now, even after all this, but there isn’t a chance I’m going to do that. “I should have never gone to that clinic.”

I say nothing.

“It’s all my fault,” she says.

I don’t like the timbre in her voice; it drops the room temperature ten degrees.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I went there behind your back. I’m so sorry.”

“I know. That doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

I almost wince. “Cheryl.”

“We were falling apart. Why, David?” She tilts her head the way she used to and for a second we are back in our yard with our coffees and books and the morning sun is making the yard glow a golden yellow and she’s tilting her head to ask me a question. “We weren’t the first couple to experience the strain of infertility.”

“We weren’t, no.”

“So why did we fall apart?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“Maybe the cracks were always there.”

“Maybe.” I don’t want to hear any of this. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“But it was a terrible betrayal.”

I don’t say anything because I don’t think I can speak.

“And because of that”—there is a hitch in her voice now—“because of what I did to you, our son…”

Then Cheryl bursts into tears.

I have, of course, known my ex-wife a long time. I have seen her go through pretty much every emotion. I have seen her cry. But never like this. Not even when Matthew died. Cheryl was never one to let go. Not fully. Even when she made love or held our son, there was a part of her that maintained control. You felt a coolness, a detachment, which sounds like a criticism, but it is not. She just never lost complete control.

Until this very moment.

I want to do something. I want to hold her or at least offer her a shoulder. But I also feel a sudden chill blowing through my heart.

“What is it, Cheryl?”

She continues to sob.

“Cheryl?”

“I went through with it.”

Just like that. I freeze. I know what she means, but I ask it anyway: “Went through with what?”

She doesn’t answer. “You knew.”

I shake my head.

“You knew,” she said again. “The anger, the resentment, the stress.”

I still shake my head.

“You started sleepwalking again.”

“No.”

“You did, David. Because of what I did. You got angry. You started to unravel. I should have seen it. It was my fault. And then one day, I don’t know, you had too much to drink maybe. Or the strain got too much.”

I keep shaking my head. “No.”

“David, listen to me.”

“You think I killed our son?”

“No,” she says. “I think I killed him. Because of what I did to you.”

I can barely breathe.

“I was sure the procedure didn’t take, that Matthew was yours, but that didn’t matter. Going through with it. My betrayal. It changed you.”