Chapter Nineteen
Another month went by, and each new day was easier than the last. Eventually, I was able to let go of the fantasy that Wes would come crawling home to me and everything would go back to the way it was.
The catalyst for that particular change in me was the arrival of papers from his lawyer, declaring us legally separated. According to family law in Nova Scotia, we had to be separated for a year before we could file for divorce, and Scott wanted to make it official.
In an instant, I was wrenched out of my denial and thrust into a state of anger, where I decided there would never be any forgiveness for either of them. From that day forward, Wes and Angie were dead to me. I didn’t want to waste another second of my life agonizing over what they were doing together. I made a pact with myself that I would no longer care. I hoped they would stay in Toronto, so that I would never have to lay eyes on either of them again.
I signed the papers.
A few days later, I received a brief email from Scott one evening when Bev was working the night shift at the hospital. He wanted to let me know that he, too, had received separation papers from Angie’s lawyer. He just thought I should know.
I sat down at my laptop and typed a reply:
Dear Scott,
Thanks so much for the message. It’s good to hear from you. I received separation papers as well, from Wes’s lawyer in Toronto. I wonder if it’s the same firm?
I told him the name of it, and with that, I realized I was not quite as “over it” as I wanted to be, and I still had some grumbling to do. I also still craved information about their affair, because I knew so little about it.
But at least I wasn’t daydreaming about a marital reconciliation. That ship—thank goodness—had sailed.
I continued my message to Scott:
Your house is fine. I’ve checked it every week, and I changed the lightbulb in the living room where you have the timer set up, after it didn’t come on one night. I’ll continue to keep an eye on things until you return.
On that note, how is Germany? Are you drinking lots of German beer and doing the polka?
I signed off and pressed send.
Twenty minutes later, my email program chimed and I sat down with a hot cup of tea to read Scott’s reply.
Dear Claire,
Yes, indeed, the papers from Angie came from the same firm. Obviously that means they are still together, which I suppose is no surprise. I’ve not heard from Angie at all. She wouldn’t answer my calls at first, so I just stopped trying because it became degrading after a while.
And Germany is good. The work keeps me occupied. I feel very far away from what happened, but I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. Sometimes it doesn’t seem real, and I imagine returning home, just like every other business trip, and Angie will pick me up at the airport and life will return to normal. It’s hard to believe that my house is empty right now. I imagine it will feel very cold when I come back.
Also, I’ve been thinking about what happened, and I feel like I should apologize to you. First of all, I feel badly for not coming to you sooner with the information, and then for taking off and leaving you there to watch my house. All I wanted to do was escape the whole situation. But you’ve had to remain at your post, with the added chore of walking through my house once a week, to look at all of Angie’s things—the furniture she picked out and the clothes she left behind—and no doubt remember how we had all been such good friends in that house. Sometimes I think of us playing board games on our coffee table and I can’t believe what happened. But then I try not to think about it. I focus on work.
Anyway, I’m sorry for rambling on and on. I’ll be back soon and I’ll bring you something cool from Germany. I don’t know what it will be yet. Is there anything you would like?
That’s probably a strange question.
All for now,
Scott
I chuckled when I came to the end of his email, took a sip of my tea, then began to type my reply.
Hi again. You said you were coming home soon. Any idea when?
And it’s really not necessary to bring me anything. I didn’t mind watching your house. (But I can’t lie. I did sometimes find it difficult to walk through there and revisit the good times we had, and to see Angie’s things. But it got easier after the first few times.)
Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t say no to some European chocolates. Just sayin’.
Claire
PS. What time is it there? It’s supper time here.
I surfed the web while I waited for his reply, although I stayed away from Facebook, because when Wes first left me, I had checked his page obsessively—again, craving information and answers. But neither he nor Angie had posted a single thing. No pictures, no status updates, nothing. It was as if they had both just dropped off the face of the earth.
Eventually I stopped checking, and it felt better to remove that angst from my life.
Scott replied five minutes later.
Hi again. I should be home in a few weeks, by the end of April at the latest. And we are 5 hours ahead of you, so it’s 10 pm here.
S.
I had to admit I was disappointed that his reply was so brief and he didn’t ask any more questions that required me to write another note. It seemed appropriate to end the conversation, and I needed to take Leo outside for a quick walk, so I sent one last message:
End of April. Cool. I will keep an eye on things here until then. Take care, and feel free to message me if you need a ride from the airport.
C.
I closed my laptop and walked away. It chimed as I was attaching Leo’s leash to his collar, so I hurried back to check it.
Thanks Claire! I’ll be in touch. And please take care of yourself. I know it’s tough right now, but we’ll get through this. You’ll see.
S.
His words at the end were incredibly comforting, because they made me feel as if I weren’t completely alone in this. I was not the only casualty of Wes and Angie’s affair.
Bev, of course, had been phenomenal, but she didn’t truly understand what I was going through, not like Scott did, because he was wounded, too. We were like two soldiers in the same trench who had been hit with shrapnel, and lived to tell about it. No one else in the world could ever truly understand what it was like. We were the only ones who knew.
I typed another reply while Leo waited patiently by the door, tail wagging:
Thank you, Scott. I really appreciate you saying that.
Talk soon,
C.
There were no more messages after that, but I slept a little better that night. I kept thinking of those final words: We’ll get through this. You’ll see.
For the first time, I believed that I would, and I began to accept that this was an end to one part of my life and the beginning of another. My future was unknown at this point, but at least there would be one, and surely it could only get better from here.
I knocked on wood with that thought.