A Curve in the Road(47)
I was busy with the roller, but I paused for a moment to watch.
Zack went still, and his eyes grew wide. He moved forward to take the brush from Alan, who led him to the center of the wall opposite the window and helped him dip the brush into the paint can.
“Great job,” Alan said as he held Zack’s hand and gently guided the brushstrokes up and down. “What do you think of this? Do you like painting?”
“Yes, Daddy. I wuv it.”
“It’s fun to paint together, isn’t it? You, me, and Mom. The Three Musketeers.”
I remember the intense rush of love that coursed through me as I watched my husband look at our little boy with unbridled joy and adoration. Tears of happiness filled my eyes, and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be married to such a good man and such a loving father to our son.
As Zack and I pull into the driveway, for one blissful moment, my anger toward Alan dissolves as I recall how happy we were. Then it all comes charging back when I think of Paula Sheridan and their secret love nest.
Zack presses the button on the remote control to open the garage door. The door slowly lifts, and I drive the rental vehicle inside.
It’s only been a week since I was last here, but it feels like a lifetime ago. I’m not the same woman I was when I drove off with Winston in the back seat of my SUV. I was so content and eager to spend the day with my mother, oblivious to my husband’s infidelity. Little did I know that my so-called perfect life was about to be blown to smithereens.
I shut off the engine, and Zack presses the button again to close the door behind us. Winston is beside himself with anticipation, pacing in the back seat, impatient to jump out and run inside—to see Alan, no doubt, the fourth member of our pack, who threw the tennis ball farther and faster than anyone.
The mood is somber as Zack and I get out of the car and open the trunk to retrieve our suitcases. Neither of us speaks a word, while Winston jumps against the inside door to the laundry room, wagging his tail and whimpering.
I lug my bags out of the trunk and open the door to the house. Winston darts inside and disappears into the kitchen, then runs from room to room, up the stairs, all around the house, sniffing and searching.
Zack and I share a look.
“He’s going to be disappointed,” Zack says.
I set down my bag, then make my way to the kitchen and turn on some lights.
The house feels like a tomb. I glance over at the computer desk in the family room, where Alan used to sit while Zack and I watched television. His water bottle is still there, half-full, standing on a bunch of papers—bills and such that will need to be taken care of. I wonder suddenly if Alan ever sent messages to Paula from that chair, when I was only a few feet away.
Winston trots down the stairs and completes a second sweep of the ground floor, then the basement—to no avail. When he comes back up the stairs, I approach him, drop to one knee, and place my hands on his cheeks.
“Sorry, baby, he’s not here. You’re going to have to get used to it being just the three of us.”
Oddly, I believe he understands. He’s searched the house from top to bottom. Somehow, he knows. This is final.
I give him another pat on the head, then rise to my feet and go check what’s still good in the refrigerator. Winston follows me like a shadow.
Over the next few days, Zack and I try to ease ourselves back into some of our normal routines, but it’s not easy. Each morning I wake up, glance over at the empty pillow on Alan’s side of the bed, and feel a giant, gaping hole in my existence. The early part of the morning seems so quiet. It’s strange not to hear Alan in the shower or ask him what time he’ll be home from work as he gets dressed.
During the day, I can’t go anywhere in the house without being reminded of Alan because his personal possessions are everywhere—his bicycle in the garage, his shoes piled in the front hall closet. It hurts to look at them, and when I do, I find myself staring in a daze, not knowing what to do with his things or how not to feel this pain, which is more confusing than ever now that I’m home, because I’m so angry with him for cheating on me, yet I can’t bear his absence and wish he were here.
I’m not ready to return to work yet because I still feel completely drained and worn out from the accident and getting through Alan’s funeral. Zack is more resilient than I am, and he goes bravely off to school.
When he comes home after his first day back, he tells me that the guidance counselor pulled him out of class to ask how he was coping. She encouraged him to seek help if he needed it—whether that meant talking to someone or being granted an extension on a project. He was both surprised and touched by how caring everyone was, asking him how he was getting along and expressing how sorry they were.
As for me, I spend the next four days on the sofa, feeling lethargic and depressed. There are moments when I hate Alan for destroying our beautiful life together. How could he have done it? How could he have squandered it all?
Then I cry like a baby because I miss him so much and want him back. I sleep a lot. And I call Carla, and we talk and talk. She wants to come and stay with me for a while, but I don’t let her because she has a family she needs to take care of.
The only thing I manage to accomplish that first week, besides taking Winston for a daily walk after lunch, is a trip to the grocery store to buy food so that Zack and I won’t starve or be forced to eat toast and canned beans night after night.