I spend the first part of the day fishing with my son. It’s a perfect day for it, unusually cool for the time of year and overcast so we don’t burn under a blazing sun. We don’t catch anything, but we stick at it for a good three hours. My son really gets the hang of casting. He seems to enjoy it.
While we sit on the rocks by the shore watching our floaters for any signs of nibbling fish, I find myself filling the gaps of conversation between us by imagining what Helen and Pascal did in bed. The thoughts are like knives plunging into my heart, my guts, and my very soul, but I can’t shake the train wreck fascination of them no matter how hard I try to stop. Helen takes pride in her sexual prowess. She must’ve been looking to impress, and no doubt pulled out every trick in her considerable bag of erotic arts. He must’ve loved that. He also must’ve enjoyed removing the new naughty undies she’d bought for him. The thoughts sicken and torture me. Mercifully, I’m able to stop thinking them when we get ready to leave.
In the car, I call Helen on my mobile phone to tell her we’re on our way home. She sounds okay. To my surprise, she asks if I will accompany her and our daughter on a trip to New York in a few weekends’ time to attend a birthday party for one of Helen’s oldest friends. This is the third time now she’s asked me to go with her on an upcoming trip. This greatly heartens and encourages me. I imagine trips like this advancing the reconciliation. I’m delighted to accept her invitation. She thanks me for making such an effort to try and put things right. I tell her I’ll do all I can because I love her. She audibly tears up and we say goodbye.
When my son and I get back, Helen is settling down on the family room couch for a nap, so I decide to take the kids to a late afternoon movie to let her sleep. She tells me to wake her before we leave, but I decide she could use the rest and we leave her asleep. I plan on giving her a wake up call from the movie on my mobile phone an hour or so later. This is the kind of thoughtful gesture she accuses me of neglecting during our marriage and I hope she appreciates it.
I get the answer machine when I call some time later from the darkened cinema (hardly endearing myself to my fellow movie patrons, but I’m trying to save a marriage here for god’s sake, people!), so I don’t know if she didn’t reach the phone in time after waking up or if she’s already awake and just not picking up. I leave a message.
When we get back, rather than seeming refreshed by her nap, Helen seems tired and drained. She says this hasn’t been a good day for her emotionally. Suddenly I feel down too. The emotional roller coaster ride continues. To top it off, she makes no mention of my gesture with the wake up call.
We eat dinner, but I’m not eating as much as in recent days again. The tortuous thoughts I had about Helen and Pascal together killed my appetite at lunch and I couldn’t finish the sandwich I brought for our fishing trip. Now I only get through a small portion of the shrimp pasta Helen’s made. I eat nothing else the rest of the night.
I fill the rest of the evening doing the household chores – laundry, trash, cleaning the kitchen, bathing and putting the kids to bed. All the stuff Helen, who works on her laptop, as usual, takes for granted. We say goodnight and head for our separate rooms.
Excerpted from Diary Of A Divorce, by Richard Pearce, available for £8.99 from www.amazon.co.uk or for $14.75 from www.lulu.com
