Honestly, I didn’t even know how to help myself.
When people asked, I responded that if they wanted to help, a time machine would be a welcome gift. To my closer friends, I’d say a list of their favorite hitmen would be lovely. The person on the other end of the line would generate a nervous laugh, and then I’d promise that Jasper and I would be fine. What real choices did I have? I’d either deal with the tragedy and get by, or I wouldn’t.
When my friends and family pried and asked if I planned to leave Rory, I wanted to say it was none of their business, but instead, I said I was taking things one day at a time. Why was my decision so important to anyone else who wasn’t a member of my immediate household?
My parents offered to stay with Jasper and me for a while.They’d been married for ten years longer than I’d been alive, but I wasn’t quite ready for their words of wisdom. I told them I’d like to see them soon, but I couldn’t imagine them being in Burlington and having to interact with Rory. I knew my parents, and no matter how much they wanted to help alleviate our situation, I knew they were more than disappointed in Rory. They were furious with him. My dad would throw a punch, and my mom would kick Rory squarely between the legs. No, this was a situation best handled among the people in my immediate three-person family. And maybe Erica.
Besides, I didn’t want anyone other than Rory, Jasper, or Erica to see me right now. Erica had been kind enough to go to the grocery store for us, and she’d brought me all my guilty pleasures. When I wasn’t cooking, I’d lie in bed with Philippe and watch Hallmark movies, orUnder the Tuscan Sunfor the billionth time, and binge on fries, Cheez-Its, gelato, cookies, and on and on. The behavior was disgusting, and I didn’t give a damn! I cooked and ate all day, and though it had only been a few days, I could feel my body swelling back into the heifer size that it used to be.
I cook and eat my emotions, and Jasper plays his. Jasper played and played and played the piano. Occasionally, we’d talk about the future. He’d ask what was next. I’d tell him I didn’t know. Because I really didn’t. I hoped that an answer would soon land in my lap. He’d go back to those ivory keys.
On the fifth day after the video was released showing the Dream Killer having his ding-dong sucked on camera, as I searched high and low for a way out, I realized what I needed to do. I couldn’t believe the decision had taken me this long. Even in the fog of trauma, I should have seen the light.
While I was baking coconut chocolate-chip cookies, Jasper was in the living room singing some sad song, creating the soundtrack for my memories. I found myself thinking about all the kind things I’d done for Rory over the past year, things that should havepleased him, things he should have acknowledged with love. Losing weight. Cutting my hair. Swallowing my pride and allowing him to talk down to me. Taking him meals at work. Loving him unconditionally. It was while thinking about how I let him get away with watching hockey games in bed that the answer came.
There were several nights over the past two months, since the hockey season had started, when I’d found it beyond difficult to concentrate on reading while Rory not only watched his Buffalo Sabres games but verbally sparred with the commentator, as if the commentator’s constant chatter weren’t enough of a distraction.
Sometimes, I could lose myself in my book—if it was a really,reallygood book—but other times, I’d hopelessly stare at the same page while listening to those two know-it-all men run their mouths full blast. If I were anything less than a Superwife, I would have asked Rory to go downstairs so the bedroom’s atmosphere would be more conducive to relaxing and sleeping, but I was focused on pleasing him.
Though I don’t care for hockey, I couldn’t help but absorb some of the ideas behind the sport. I remembered a match two weeks earlier when the commentator had been going on and on about how good the Sabres looked, but that they would have to stick to their game all season long if they wanted to reach the playoffs. The man went on a long diatribe about how, as the season progressed, so many teams unnecessarily changed their habits, their plays, their plans. He said that even though the matches would become more important, they shouldn’t change how they played a winning game. They would have to play the same caliber of hockey that had led them to the playoffs. I recalled how jarring it was for me when Rory shook the bed while throwing his fist into the air and yelling, “Exactly!” as the man finished.
By the time I’d pulled the cookies out of the oven, I was convinced I was on the right track with my own plan. I can already feel you disagreeing with me. I know you’re saying something like, “Don’t you dare compare your current relationship and situation to the Stanley Cup playoffs.”
Well, you know what? That’s what I did, like it or not.
Youweren’t there.
Maybe you’re a woman who had a cheating husband, and you left him. Maybe you went on to live a happy life. Good, I’m so happy for you. Let me tell you though, a lot of other women have been in our predicament, forgiven their husbands, and gone on to live amazing lives.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Rory or our marriage. Not yet. And I knew what I had to do. I was in the final match of saving our marriage. We had arrived at the Stanley Cup Playoffs. His infidelity was a goal for the other team. That didn’t mean I had to give up. Though we had experienced the ultimate setback, he was awakening, and he was seeing me again. For days, I’d seen the real Rory emerging. I enjoyed an IMAX-worthy glimpse of the man I had fallen in love with during our lovely home date the day before the news broke. Since he’d been humiliated on national television, I’d been experiencing even more. He listened like he used to, and he spoke without the politician’s fake enthusiasm that had always made me question his motives.
Why should I stop now?
Sure, I could have looked at that night as a redirection of his attraction. Maybe he was falling so hard for Nadine that his sexual urges had reawakened. Maybe he was in a fog of his own—one of lust, and that lust was directed toward me for a minute. Perhaps he would have porked a squirrel that night if the animal had been at the right place at the right time.
I didn’t think that was the case, though. I knew the Rory I’d married, and the man who’d slept with me that night was him. He was coming back! I couldn’t let this little slipup destroy all the hard work I’d put in. I couldn’t let myself be so close to the finish line, only to stop shy.
Like a member of the winning team, I had to continue playing my game. I had to do what kept working. Somehow, I needed to forgive him and move forward. Judge me all you want. I wanted my family back. For better or worse, damn it. For better or worse!
In sticking to the game, I would need to release the Stanley Cup pressure building up inside me. If I could somehow swallow (ugh, what a terrible word, considering his offense) my pride, look past his infidelity, and continue being the perfect wife, then I would have to find a release. And I don’t know about you—if you’ve hung around for the end of this love story—but I didn’t think mismatching socks would cut it. Nor would scrubbing the toilet with a toothbrush. Stabbing him with skewers might have worked, but wouldn’t violence defeat the purpose?
That little skewer daydream, by the way, scared the hell out of me, and I must tell you it wasn’t the only violent one I’d had in the past five days. Maybe I already mentioned a few of them, but don’t you go telling people. Let’s just say that hurting my husband during my soaker-tub daydreams became one glorious way to turn the valve.
Anyway, what pressure release was worthy of a Stanley Cup finish to my year? The answer was on the tip of my tongue.
Considering my decision to stick with the plan, I didn’t touch a cookie as they cooled in front of me. Back to the diet, back to air. I put a couple of warm cookies on a plate and took them to Jasper. He was playing Liszt from memory. Though I didn’t have his skills or talent, I was no slouch when it came to understanding the emotional and technical aspects of music, and I could hear the magic in his playing. You don’t win the lead in big productions without being good at what you do. I could list my insecurities, failures, and weaknesses for as long as you want to listen, but the one thing I never doubted was my strength as a musician. I sat and listened to him play—the way he struck the keys, the notes he let linger, the personal stamp he put on the piece.
Something was different.
Tears pricked my eyes as the beauty of his music showered over me. I’d never heard him play so well. Not with such emotion. From my healthier vantage point, if I could point to the best thing that resulted from what Rory had done to our family, it’s that Jasper took a giant step as a musician that week. He was no longer a kid running from competition to recital, going for the win. He wasn’t playing like a student anymore. There was a growth, a maturity to his playing. Unfortunately, perhaps he was drawing from the angst he’d been forced to endure. Over the past few days, he’d become a professional. Yes, he’d get better and never stop honing his craft, but he had reached a level that very few musicians ever would. It made me sad that I’d been thinking so much about myself, but his playing at that moment was him telling me he’d be okay no matter how things unfolded.
As my son played his heart out, achieving his dream, I thought of my own dreams and almost felt jealous of his ability. He hadn’t yet graduated from high school, but he had it all figured out. What about me? What about my dreams? I couldn’t let Rory steer me away from my destiny. I wondered:What if I could do it all? What if I could get my family back and have a bed-and-breakfast?
I smiled devilishly. Rory could never refuse me now. Maybe I could turn this devastating week into a good thing; Jasper had. Not wanting to disturb him, I left the cookies on a nearby table. Fully enthused about this idea of having it all, I took my laptop to the kitchen, settled in at the island, and found my favorite real estate website.
Trying not to salivate at the sight of the tray of cookies on the stove or their delicious aroma, I created a search for places within thirty miles with at least five acres. Knowing I didn’t want to endure a massive renovation, I only included commercial properties. No way did I want to rip up an old home and add bathrooms.
There were quite a few results, but I’d done enough realtyresearch over the years to eliminate the listings that didn’t stand out. I clicked through pictures. Though I hadn’t found what I was looking for, I was getting closer. I noticed I was even sitting up too straight, a bit too excited. Rory had no idea what he was getting ready to buy.
