Now
Jude
Michel knocks on my front door, his hands full of groceries.
“I brought cheese, beer, canned soup, frozen pizza...” he says as I let him in. “All the staples. I promised Corinne I’d make sure you ate.”
“That’s never been a problem for me,” I tell him.
He laughs.
“That’s exactly what I told her.”
He takes the groceries to the kitchen and puts them away, pausing to bend down to pet Artie.
“Have you talked to Corinne today?” he asks.
I shake my head dismally. “No. Dr. Phillips still wants me to wait.”
Michel scowls. “I really don’t agree with that, Jude. She needs to know you care.”
“She knows I care,” I tell him. “She’s all I’ve cared about for fifteen years. That’s never changed.”
“Gee, thanks, bro.”
I realize what he’s saying and backtrack. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. Of course I care about you, dumbass.”
“Again, gee, thanks.”
I roll my eyes.
Michel stacks the soup in the pantry. “There’s something I found odd, Jude. When I was there, she didn’t mention the baby at all. Doesn’t she remember yet?”
A pang hits my stomach. “No, she doesn’t.”
Michel stops moving and turns to me. “Isn’t that very, very odd? I mean, I’m not a therapist like you, but it seems weird.”
“It’s not, given her situation,” I explain. “Her dissociative tendencies have deepened over the years. It’s not surprising at all, actually.”
“I still can’t believe that she... I mean, she wouldn’t have done that.”
I sigh. “Yet she did. She took the abortion pill, and then she slit her wrist. She tried to kill the baby, and herself. I can’t begin to explain why, but she did it.”
“But that’s not the Corinne that we know,” Michel insists.
“You’re right,” I agree. “It’s not. It’s a part of Corinne that she’s hidden even from herself. We can’t explain it. She can’t even explain it. We can only hope that she gets better.”
“I’ll be praying for her,” Michel tells me seriously.
“You do that.”
“In the meantime, I think you should make them let you see her. She needs it,” my brother tells me firmly. “She really does. She’s so lost. She’s floundering.”
“Okay. I’ll think on that, and maybe call them tomorrow.”
“You do that.”
“Thanks for the food.”
“Yep.”
He leaves, and the house is quiet. So quiet. Too quiet.
I grab a scotch and head out to the back patio, allowing Artie to amble around the yard, sniffing this corner and that. I sit on a lounge chair, enjoying the brisk air and the cool breeze. My face is flushed from the alcohol, and the cold feels good.
I close my eyes and let my thoughts drift.
They flit away from my present, back to happier times.
The day Corinne and I closed on this house.
Ju, she’d called from out here, standing in the sun on the patio. Come here. This backyard is better than I remembered.
I’d joined her, and we’d held hands as Artie ran circles around the fence line, as the flowers bloomed and swayed in the spring breeze. The sun had been in her hair, and it looked like a halo.
We’re going to be happy here, she’d whispered, burying her face in my neck.
I’d agreed and pulled her to me, and we’d started kissing, then ended up making love on a towel on the patio.
We hadn’t even bought furniture yet.
I sigh now, the memories filling my belly with warmth.
But then I remember where I am. I’m on the same patio, but it’s dark now. With the night, and from the knowledge that I’m here alone. My wife is gone.
We haven’t been overly happy here.
And I’m not sure that we ever will be.
A feeling of such utter loss and sadness comes over me, so much so that I pick up my phone and dial the number for Reflections.
A charge nurse answers, and at first, she doesn’t want to get Corinne for me.
“Mr. Cabot, I have notes here that say you agreed with Dr. Phillips that you shouldn’t speak to Corinne this week,” she says hesitantly.
“That’s true,” I tell her politely, yet firmly. “I did. But I’ve changed my mind tonight. I need to speak with my wife, and she needs to speak with me. If you could go get her, I would appreciate it.”
“But,” she starts, and I interrupt her.
“No buts. I can sign her out of there at any time. Please, go get her.”
“Very well.”
It’s a few minutes before I hear my wife’s voice, and when I do, it sends shock waves through my heart. I miss her more than I even realized.
“Jude?” her voice is soft and husky, familiar and warm. “Is everything all right?”
My heart clenches. She’s worried about me. She’s in a psych ward, and she’s worried about me.
“Everything’s fine, babe,” I tell her. “I just miss you. I’m sitting out on the patio, and I was thinking about the day we bought this house, and I miss you. I know I’m not supposed to bother you this week, but I had to make sure you’re okay.”
She’s silent, and then she takes a deep breath. “I miss you, too, Jude. God, I want to come home.”
That kills me. It crushes my heart into pieces.
Her voice is small and uncertain, and it’s that place that is doing it to her.
I have to physically force myself to stay in my seat and not race to my car to go pick her up.
“I know,” I tell her. “Are you doing okay? Are you making any headway?”
She’s quiet again.
“I don’t know. I guess. I just... There’s something I need to ask you.”
“Anything,” I say immediately. “Ask me anything.”
“Is there someone else, Jude?”
Her question is hesitant, her voice thin, and it takes me a second to realize what she’s asking. She knows.
She knows.
“What do you mean?” I ask stiffly, buying for time, because I have no idea what the fuck to say.
“In my sessions, I’m remembering some things from the past few weeks that just don’t add up. It feels like... I mean, my gut is telling me that you’re...that there is someone else, Jude. Please, tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” I say immediately, because it’s my gut instinct to lie to protect myself, and even to protect her. She doesn’t need to know. It’ll set her back, and I’m going to end things with Zoe, and everything will be fine.
Corinne never has to know.
She sighs, and it’s loud and long and relieved. “Are you sure?”
“Of course,” I lie to her again. “I love you, Corinne. It’s only you. It’s always been you. I know it’s easy to get confused because of everything that’s happened, but I love you. Don’t ever get confused on that.”
And that’s the truth. I do love her. More than anything. Zoe is nothing to me.
“God, that’s good to hear,” she murmurs, and I think she’s crying and I feel like shit.
“Babe, I’m coming on Saturday to see you. I don’t care what they say. I need to see you.”
“I need to see you, too. I love you, Ju.”
“I love you, too. Sleep tight, and I’ll see you in a couple days.”
She hangs up and I stare at the black sky, and I’m a complete and utter jackass. I know that. But she never has to. I’ll make sure of that.
I settle farther into the seat, and when something pokes my back, I feel around with my hand, grabbing a stiff piece of paper.
Pulling it up in front of my face, I find that it’s a photo.
I peer at it and then startle.
It’s a woman masturbating, her legs spread wide, her fingers inserted in her vagina. Red lace panties are pulled down and stretched to the side, and I recognize the navy striped cushion.
It’s the one I’m sitting on.
It’s Zoe. I recognize the blue nail polish.
I don’t know when or how, but she was here, on this lounge, masturbating and photographing herself. Then she left this for me to find.
I’m not sure what I feel as I slide the picture into my pocket.
Violated because she was at my house without my permission?
Even more certain that I have to end everything with her?
Or excited because she was masturbating on my patio in broad daylight?
I’m finding myself in the same predicament with her every day—torn between the forbidden excitement and the moral compass that tells me everything about her is wrong. Every time I decide to cut all contact with her, she manages to do something to keep me from it, to keep me coming back for more.
I hate myself.
I can’t stop myself.
I’m weak.
I’m pathetic.
I close my eyes and do what I do best.
Pretend it’s not a problem.
If I don’t acknowledge it, then it can’t be real.
The irony isn’t lost on me...that this exact behavior is what landed my wife in a psych ward.