Other Side of the Wall (2 page)

“You
could say that.”

“Why
don’t you go home?”

I
sighed. I would love nothing more than to go home, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t
return after not being able to even stay married for two years. I knew people
there would accept me with open arms, but I couldn’t stand the thought of being
pitied and felt sorry for. When I returned, I wanted to feel whole and over the
humiliation of my situation. I know it didn’t make sense, but honestly, my life
hadn’t made sense for a while now. I hoped someday it would and that I would be
able to see the reason for this particular journey. And then there was a matter
of my pride. Peter always said I just couldn’t hack it because I hadn’t really
had to live real life, that I was naïve and sheltered, and that I had had
everything handed to me on a silver platter. I guess part of me was out to
prove him wrong.

Scott
didn’t need to know all that, so I just smiled. “I will when the time is
right.”

Scott
ended up telling me about his family. They all pretty much lived here, too,
including his in-laws. I could tell he was trying to remain emotionless when he
spoke about his wife, whom he had known since he was a kid, and her family. I
even noticed that he rubbed his wedding ring as he spoke. I thought it was
sweet that he still wore his ring. I’m pretty sure Peter didn’t even wear his
all the time while we were married, which probably explains why he is a daddy
now.
Really, Ava, just let it go.

Between
our conversation we ate and then ate some more. We talked long enough to pick
the whole pan clean. It felt nice. It was also nice to hear someone compliment
my food. I used to think I was a good cook; at least I was where I was from.
Actually, Scott was very complimentary.

We
eventually moved to his couch. He was really easy to talk to and he was quite
interesting. His job was fascinating. He specifically worked in the oceanarium
portion of the aquarium. I learned more about whales and dolphins than I ever
had before, and that was saying something considering where I grew up. He wanted
to know about my job too. I didn’t know if there was anything fascinating about
it, but I had some interesting stories to tell about some of my humorous patient
encounters. He laughed and laughed. I didn’t think I was that funny, but I
think he just needed to laugh. In fact, we both did.

Then
we debated the merits of professional football versus college. Hands down
college was where it was at, but of course being a lifelong Bears fan, he
disagreed. I told him you didn’t know what football was all about until you
lived in the south, particularly Alabama. We agreed to disagree.

As
the evening wore on, we inched closer on the couch. I hadn’t really noticed
until we were practically touching. By this time, it was well past midnight. I
hadn’t meant to stay so long, but the time had passed so quickly in his
presence. It was the best evening I’d had in a long time. If I had to guess, I
think he felt the same way too.

It
was all going so well, but then it happened. I’m not sure how (ok, I know how)
or why it happened. Maybe it was because we were both so lonely, or maybe
because it was late and we weren’t thinking straight, but no matter the reason,
it happened.

I
had just looked at my phone and the time. “Wow, I didn’t realize the time, I
should probably go now.” I looked up to thank him for a very lovely evening, and
that’s when I noticed him looking at me intently. I smiled.

He
smiled back. “I’m sure you’ve heard this from plenty of men, but I think you
may be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

I
was so surprised by his words that I didn’t know what to say. I had been called
beautiful before, but I don’t know if anyone had ever said it so sincerely.
Unfortunately, sincerity was my undoing. My eyes began to water. He touched my
cheek softly and smiled, and I whispered thank you. He leaned in closer, and
for a second, I held my breath. It seemed so surreal, but yet natural. Without a
second thought, he closed the distance, and his lips gently brushed mine. He
was so tender. It had been so long since I had been tenderly kissed, and I had
missed it, craved it even. Maybe that’s why I didn’t think that this was a bad
idea when I should have.

After
a few gentle kisses, he placed his hand behind my neck and pulled me closer.
Instinctively my lips parted, and he kissed me deeper. I don’t know if I had
ever been kissed with such emotion. He kept kissing me, and then he kissed me
some more.

“Scott,”
I whispered between kisses.

He
immediately froze and released me at the sound of his name. I’ll never forget
the look he gave me. I knew instantly he had regretted it. He started spouting
that he was sorry and it was a mistake and he shouldn’t have and that I really
should be going. He didn’t need to tell me. I got up quickly and walked to the
door as fast as I could. He didn’t even see me out. He just sat on his couch
and cried.

Chapter 2

For
days I berated myself. What was I thinking letting a man, who was clearly still
grieving his dead wife, kiss me, and I mean really kiss me? I had just become
another man’s regret. It seemed to be my lot in life. It hadn’t taken long for
me to see that Peter regretted marrying me, and now I was my neighbor’s regret.
The worst part was, I didn’t regret it, and under different circumstances, I
wouldn’t mind if Scott kissed me again. In fact, I would welcome it. I liked my
neighbor, and if the truth be told, I liked him a lot. But now there was more
than just a wall dividing us, there was something bigger and more intrusive:
embarrassment and remorse.

We
wouldn’t even make eye contact with each other. As the days and weeks went on, we
avoided each other like the plague, which at times was difficult considering
our living circumstances. If ever we did see each other, we just pretended not
to.

I
hated it.

I
mean, it wasn’t like I was ready to jump into a relationship with him, but he
was the first person I had really connected with since I moved here. I was just
looking for a friend. At work I had a hard time making any connections. First,
it was because I was new and the other nurses were territorial; some felt
threatened that I had more education. I realize, too, that I played a part, but
Peter had me so wound up. He hated that I had to work night shifts, but that’s
what happens when you’re new and the low person on the totem pole. Then he
would complain that I was too tired in the morning when we saw each other
between me getting home and him leaving for work. He complained that all he saw
me in was scrubs, so I started changing, reapplying make-up, and fixing my hair
at work before coming home. I tried my hardest not to act tired when I was
home, even though I had never been so physically and emotionally exhausted. I
think my coworkers saw me as vain and stuck-up, but I was just trying to make
my husband happy and love me. Then I did my job too well in some people’s
opinion, and I was promoted quickly. That didn’t engender happy warm fuzzy
feelings either.

After
my promotion, I was the supervising nurse for the day shift. I think people were
only nice to me after that because I was their boss, but at least it was better
than before. In addition, I had relaxed a lot since the divorce. I didn’t even
think most people I worked with realized I was going through a divorce. I never
spoke of it.

I
was trying to be the old Ava again, the carefree, loving Ava. But sometimes I
was afraid to be her, because I felt like that wasn’t enough—at least not
enough for Peter. After we moved back to his hometown, I could never seem to
please him. I don’t know what happened. The first few months of our marriage
had been perfect. He had a paid internship with an architectural firm in Mobile,
and we rented a condo on the beach. He came home happy every night to see me.
We spent most of our time like most newlyweds: wrapped up in each other. Every
day he would tell me he loved me, I was the best thing that had ever happened
to him, and getting stung by that jelly fish was heaven sent.

That’s
how we met. The year before we were married, he interned for the same company
in Mobile. One weekend he and some of the other interns made a trip to the
beach, and he ended up in urgent care. I had always made it a rule never to
date patients, but he was the most handsome man I had ever met. He spoke fluent
Italian, and he swept me off my feet. We dated that whole summer, and then he
went back to Chicago to finish his Master of Architecture degree at the
University of Illinois Chicago. He wanted me to go with him, but I said no. I’m
a very traditional girl when it comes to marriage and dating. He was
disappointed, but he wrote me beautiful love letters all through the year;
that’s how his grandfather had won his grandmother’s heart, and it worked like
a charm on me. Of course, he called me every day too, and then during Christmas
he came to visit and proposed. Happy didn’t even describe how I felt at the
time.

The
only damper was my parents; they were worried. My mom said he was too smooth and
we hadn’t lived enough real life around each other. I wished now I would have
listened, but sometimes love makes us blind and dumb. Peter and I married the
following June and, like I said, it was wedded bliss. Then he was offered a job
by two firms, the one in Mobile and one in Chicago. I wanted to stay in
Alabama, but it was Peter’s dream to be an architect in Chicago. He fancied
himself the next Frank Lloyd Wright. So, I tried to be the unselfish wife and I
followed him to the land of cold and snow. He promised me it would be great.

He
lied.

Now
I found myself divorced and alone in a strange, cold city, and to top it off, I
now had to avoid my widower neighbor because we shared a passionate kiss one
night. Whatever happened to my life?

Thankfully,
summer finally came. I reveled in the warmth. While everyone around me
complained about the heat and humidity, I soaked it in. I rode to work every
non –rainy morning with the top down on my Jeep. Each day that passed I felt
more like myself. I even tried to venture out into the city and experience what
it had to offer. I had wanted Peter to do that with me when we were together,
but he always said he was too busy with work and promised there would be time
later. I really had to stop thinking about him. He was my past. At least I
tried to keep him there. Unfortunately, sometimes he still showed up in the
present, and not just in my head. Once in a while he would send me a letter or
try and call me. I didn’t answer any more, and the letters were promptly sent
back return to sender.

Then,
one beautiful summer day in July,
she
came into the hospital. It was
only the second time I’d seen her. I hadn’t seen her since the day I’d found
out my marriage was over and I was the last to know. You know, it’s impossible
to forget the day when your whole life changes in just seconds. The day when you
find out that your husband is all of a sudden being so sweet and warm, not
because of love, but because of guilt. That day for me was May 15 of last year,
the first time Stacy Marino walked into my ER. Neither of us had any idea how
tangled our lives were at the time. We had no idea we were each in love with the
same man.

For
me, May 15
was a routine day, and I thought Stacy was a routine
patient. Her symptoms were simple enough. I didn’t even need the urine culture
to tell me she had a urinary tract infection. And it didn’t take a genius to
figure out what her other symptoms and late period meant either. I had seen it
too many times: a young unmarried woman, pregnant and scared. She wasn’t the
first young woman to break down. I tried to be reassuring and informational.

“Peter
is not going to be happy,” she said as I handed her a prescription for
antibiotics.

There
are thousands of Peters in Chicago
, I thought.

She
took the prescription. “He told me I was a mistake and he loves his wife.” She
began to cry. “I told him I loved him and he said I could never replace his
wife, I think her name is Ava,” she rambled between sobs.

I
thought my heart stopped for a moment. I tried not to panic. Surely there was more
than one couple in Chicago with the names Peter and Ava. I turned back toward
the counter.  “So, how did you meet Peter?” I tried to sound casual.

“I’m
a receptionist at Atkinson’s Architect Firm and…”

I
began to shake and felt like I was going to vomit. I barely even heard what she
said next. All I could think was,
that’s where Peter works
. I gripped
the counter for support. “Did you know he was married when you began to see
him?” I’m sure she wondered what the third degree was about, but I didn’t care,
I needed to know.

“Yes,”
she said as if she was embarrassed.

“How
long have you been seeing him?”

“A
couple of months.”

I
couldn’t help it. My own tears came.

I
could still hear her crying. “What should I do?”

“You
need to tell him.”

She
began to cry harder. “I don’t know how to contact him. He would never give me
his number and he’s in Boston now at a conference.”

I
carefully removed my wedding ring (the one that had belonged to Peter’s
grandmother), and I pulled out my prescription pad again. I wrote out Peter’s
number and slowly turned around. She looked stunned and confused to see me
crying. I handed her the paper and my ring. “Tell Peter his wife, Ava, gave you
his number.”

She
just looked at me, wide eyed. I looked at her and thought,
this must be what
Peter wanted
. She was Italian and dark just like him. She talked like she
was from Chicago, and she was voluptuous. I’m sure his Mother would be happy. I
quickly ran out of the room and lost it. I told my boss I was ill, and I went
home and immediately pulled out our old packing boxes. I packed up all his
clothes and anything else that I could that belonged to him, including all the
letters he had sent to me. Most of the furniture I owned before we got married.
Anything that was his I would have moved to his Mother’s place. Then I went to
the bank and took half of the money out of our account and took my name off the
joint account. Most of it was my money, but I didn’t care. Then I called a
locksmith and had the locks changed. I parked his car in front of the townhouse
and filled it with his belongings, and then I placed the rest on the porch.

Then
I waited. I didn’t have to wait too long. He called and I didn’t answer. He
called again, and I still didn’t answer. I lost track of the amount of times he
called that night. I made some phone calls of my own. First, I called my mom. I
had been lying to her for months about how great life was. I didn’t want them
to hate Peter. There was no stopping that now. I hated him too. My parents
begged me to come home, but I just couldn’t. I needed to prove to myself that I
wasn’t weak and sheltered and naïve, and I knew Peter wasn’t going to make the
divorce easy. I talked to my brother, Tucker, next. We didn’t talk long. He was
a man of action, not talk. He jumped on the next plane to Chicago. He was ever
the protective big brother.

Peter
arrived before Tucker the next morning. He had left his conference early. I had
listened to some of the messages he left me. “Ava. Please answer, Ava. I’m
coming home now, Ava. I love you, Ava. I’m so sorry. Please, Ava, please.” Then
he came home to find he didn’t live there anymore. I had never heard or seen
him cry before that day. He stood there, just banging on the door and pleading
for me to open it. Finally, through the door, I just asked him to leave. I sat
on the floor in front of the door silently crying and just letting the tears
fall to the floor. I loved him, and he had betrayed me in the most intimate of
ways. He kept saying we could work it out and that we could move back to the
beach if I wanted to. He said he was willing to do anything to make it right,
but there was no making this right. Peter was going to be the father of a baby
that wasn’t mine, and his coldness and indifference had been slowly killing me
for months.

There
was nothing left to salvage.

To
make matters worse, Scott came out from his home and told Peter to leave, that
any man worth his salt wouldn’t have cheated on his wife in the first place.
Peter didn’t take it kindly. I was mortified, on the other side of the door,
that my deepest pain was now public knowledge. Peter told Scott to stay out of
it, but Scott wasn’t backing down; he told Peter to just leave me alone. Then
Peter jumped to the conclusion that Scott had a thing for me. Scott laughed at
him and said he had a lot a nerve and he was an idiot to let such a healthy,
beautiful woman go. Peter flew off the handle about him calling me beautiful. I
almost opened the door, but then my brother came and saved the day. Peter had
no desire to mess with my brother. It was a good thing too, because you don’t
want to mess with a southern boy, especially when family honor is at stake.

I
opened the door quickly to let Tucker in. I caught a glance of Peter. He looked
terrible, but I had no sympathy for him. He made his bed, or should I say he
jumped into someone else’s, and now he had to lie in it. But maybe that was the
worst part of it all. He didn’t even want Stacy. He told me over and over she
meant nothing to him. I know he thought that would make it better, but it
didn’t. It only meant that he threw me away for nothing. It would have been
better for me if he would have fallen in love with her.

Over
a year later, on that beautiful day in July, here Stacy was, once again in my
ER, but this time with a baby girl in her arms, Peter’s daughter. It still
stung. I had so badly wanted to get pregnant, but Peter kept telling me we
needed to wait, we were still young. I was twenty seven when we got married and
he was twenty eight, but he wanted to be more settled in his career. It wasn’t
until right before I found out about Stacy that he had changed his tune.
Looking back, it was a blessing that never happened for us.

Stacy
cautiously approached the nurse’s station. She looked scared. I couldn’t
imagine why she would come here to see me, but I was sure it was me she wanted
to see.