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I told her. We both paused to peer out at the rain pouring down the windowpanes. The distant rumble of thunder informed us the rain would be with us for a while.
“He wouldn’t just leave you, honey! I’ve known Marc almost as long as you have. He doesn’t have it in him.”
In spite of her pronouncement, Mom didn’t know him aswellas I did. She’d been around him only when we’d gone back home to St. Clair for holidays, times when we were mostly happy and in sync. We were always together, Marc and I, during those times. Mom rarely, if ever, had a chance to speak to him alone, let alone talk about anything of substance.
I’d never shared with her what had really evolved over the past few years. The facts were embarrassing and, in a way they shouldn’t have, shamed me.
And that truth, which I wasn’t ready to give space outside my own mind, was that we had grown bored with each other. Not so much me, but definitely him. I could tell from the distracted look on his face when I spoke with him and how he often missed hearing me completely because his mind was elsewhere.
Our lives, if I was honest, had become routine, lacking in passion or joy. We hadn’t had sex in two years at least. We were, at best, companionable roommates, settled in our daily meals, TV-watching, and going to bed earlier and earlier.
Maybe Marc had simply had enough. I knew, in my darkest moments, I’d fantasized about what life would be like without him and, in those moments, being on my own had its appeal, even if it did bring up a hot rush of guilt. Perhaps he was having the same fantasies and one day, when the most exciting event was beef stew for dinner, he’d decided to chuck it all and start over somewhere new. Maybe even with someone new?
But Marc wouldn’t just walk out, would he? Wouldn’t we talk? Make a plan? See a marriage counselor or at least a divorce lawyer?
The sad truth: we don’t ever really know what goes on in the minds of those we love. Not really.
One thing Ididknow about my husband—he had a fear of confrontation bordering on the irrational. If I faced the sad facts of life, it was this: he could sneak out when I was gone, simply to avoid what might come after—the arguments and the tears. Leaving may have just been easier, despite how cowardly it was.
Is this all that had happened? Something so, so—mundane?
“Ma, I don’t know. I don’t have your confidence.”
“Why? Were you two having problems?”
“No, not really. We never fought.”
“Well, then, there you go. Why would a man leave a handsome guy and a marriage where you got along so well?”
“Weneverfought, Ma. I don’t know if that’s such a good sign.“ I took a breath, debating whether I should make my next admission, especially to my mom. In the end, I decided she needed the truth. “We never make love either, not anymore. Things had become rote, painfully dull, if you want the truth.”
“Oh sweetie, that happens a lot to married people who’ve been together for a long time. You come to appreciate the company, the traditions, the sense of family. Sometimes, lust is the first thing to go. I’m not convinced.”
“I wishIwas.“ Suddenly, the notion of him simply running away was taking on more and more credence. If thatwerethe case, I was sure he’d be in touch at some point in the near future. I knew he couldn’t be so heartless as to worry me this way.
“Maybe it was that Jeb person, or the guy pretending to be him? Maybe he snatched him?” Worry creased her features.
“No. I saw him, even spoke with him, at the time Marc went missing.”
“Well, maybe he was in cahoots with someone? Was he deliberately delaying you at the beach so this could happen?”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
But was it? I thought of Occam’s Razor, which said something along the lines of once you remove unnecessary information, what remained was the truth. Marc being yanked out of our home was fantastic, the stuff of thriller books and movies, but wasn’t it more likely he, like many other men, simply walked away from life as a result of ennui and a middle-aged crisis? I mean, we weren’t rich or celebrities. We were just ordinary, liberal, middle-class gay men. There was no reason for anyone to kidnap either of us, or worse. What would they stand to gain? I sighed. “But I don’t know.”
The rain had abated, slowing to soft taps on the window. With its slowing down, the thunder and lightning went back to wherever they’d come from. We sat in silence for a while. I wasn’t sure what more I could tell her.
“Maybe we should both try to get some sleep?” For the first time, I felt like I actually could. I was weary to my bones.
Mom nodded. “But before we do, there’s something I have to tell you.” She sucked in a breath and I saw something—maybe fear or worry—light up her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
She licked her lips. Wiped a hand across her face. Sipped her tea. Looked once more out the window. The patter of the rain was eerie, unsettling. It made me think of swimming in the Ohio all those years with Jeb and the summer storm that prompted us to swim back from a tree-covered island.
“Ma?”
“I know. I know. This is hard.” She rose and went to the window. I couldn’t imagine what was so fascinating out there, unless avoidance stood on the corner, leaning against the STOP sign.
