Sunday brunch was uncomfortable that day. I remember cornmeal waffles and some sort of omelet too rich and full of things I don’t normally eat. There was tension between us. He was unusually testy, ranting about seemingly insignificant work-related events meant to be kept secret. I promised not to divulge a thing. But his persistent mean- spirited tone was hurtful, so I left the restaurant to sit in the stairwell of a walkup apartment. Outside in the rain, I waited for him to pay the bill and get in the car. I knew things were not as they should be.

Riding home in silence, I began a conversation in my head, but didn’t quite know how to get the words out. So I waited and watched, and all day paid attention to his unspoken messages. I secretly prayed that he would say something meaningful, but the afternoon hours dragged on with barely a word spoken. It was as if he were far away, dreaming of who knows what.

At our usual Sunday night hangout he ate little and complained about a stomach ache—rare for him. The bartender sensed something was amiss, but did not delve into it and just kept pouring the usual. My index of suspicion was rising that a horrid event was about to occur, and I, too, began to feel sick. I purposely made a few sarcastic comments about this girl he knew, then paid close attention to his reaction. This track would surely lead somewhere. But the night ended as the day started and I was no more aware of the problem. Was there a problem?

Monday morning brought more anxious words and hasty refusals to go away with me on any upcoming weekend. He needed to stay put, here in town, to work on his craft and line things up for some new shows. By now I was really troubled and the same thoughts repeated over and over again in my head: “Something is not right. You are so distant, so strange. Why won’t you just talk to me about what is really going on in your life?”

Sitting in our home office, I waited for the dialogue to begin. I paced, too, making little loops between our small rooms, all the while hoping for some reassurance that I was just imagining things.

Eventually, the dreaded disclosure came, along with his tears and sadness—big, big sobs of pain and guilt poured out. I listened with fear as the man of my heart told me he had been unfaithful. When I heard the words, “I think I love her,” I knew we were in a large amount of trouble.

Oddly, suddenly, in the midst of all this, I remembered I had an important business meeting to attend that morning, where I had to be “on” and talk about some critical proposal. Very serious and brave, I drove to the hospital where I worked as if nothing had occurred. My good doctor happened to be outside of the building and spotted me on the way in; he called me aside to inquire about the palpitations I was experiencing a while back. “Oh those,” I said. “Gone.” My disguise was quite good and just the beginning of many lies I would tell during the course of the next few years, protecting people from the truth so I would not have to deal with certain parts of it either.

I don’t remember anything about the drive home after the meeting. When I arrived there, exhausted, he was on the phone with her and I sensed from his tone that she was not
pleased about the exposure. It sounded like they were plotting the next move. He hurried
off the line and I began to crumble—all at once crying, yelling, asking why, and, strangely, forgiving him. I wanted to say, “So, are you two going to have a real relationship now, out in the open? How do you suppose that will work?” But there was no time for discussion as he had an opening to attend and all his cronies would show up, her too, of course, the fabulous newcomer to his artistic ensemble. So at 5:00 p.m. he escaped out the front door, with me sitting on the sofa bed in the guestroom, screaming in pain. I wanted to commit suicide on the spot.

Of course we had therapy, a couple times a week for weeks—but it didn’t matter, it didn’t help. He went further and further away from me, to her, and it was over for us. He stayed in a friend’s loft for awhile, and called a lot to tell me how sad and lonely life was without me. But it didn’t change anything. He didn’t come back and after a year we filed for divorce.

To cleanse my soul I went the path of so many other women whose husbands leave them for people half their age: medication, herbs, massage, acupuncture, self-help books and classes, talking, crying, holding, hugging, processing. But, the questions never ceased: What happened to our twenty years? Where did we go wrong? What could I have done better? Why the hell did he have to have an affair? What are the ties that bind, anyway? Endless, constant questions. I’ve tried to answer them. I’ve written poems, songs and letters to her, him, and myself. I’ve begged an explanation in trying to purge myself of anger and pain. At times, I careen into this “black hole” of sorts, where empty comes to fill me and I stagger from knowing how lonely it can get there. It’s a place beyond what I ever knew or imagined was possible in the name of grief, but whose remarkable presence visits me again and again. And when I ponder the meaning of this blackholedom, I think maybe it’s a way of getting soul, or simply the price we pay for living. Who knows? Oh, well.

Life goes on and I have learned to “let go.” (It is crucial for healing or so I’m told.) The fantasies about his coming home have ended; they just held me back and there was no sign of such an event occurring, anyway. So I live my life day by day, waking up in the morning and putting on my mascara and dark lipstick. I constantly remind myself that I am a smart, beautiful, talented, and funny woman. And, out in the world, although I’m not really ready for another relationship, I flirt with men and they flirt back. I feel my power this way. People say that when I least expect it, someone will come along who will love and adore me. This sounds nice so I am hopeful.

You know those ties that bind—what will they eventually come to mean? Perhaps when I discover them they will afford me an escape from that black hole. Surely, the vacancy left from where my heart was ripped out will fill in, again.