Dating Game (4 page)

“Where are you going to live?” she asked, sounding as frantic as she felt.

“I don't know yet,” he said, avoiding her eyes again. “We'll have plenty of time to figure that out. I'll move to a hotel tomorrow,” he said quietly, and it suddenly occurred to her that not only was this happening, but it was happening now, not at some distant date in the future. He was going to move out in the morning. “I'll sleep in the guest room tonight,” he said, moving toward the bathroom to gather up his things, and instinctively she reached out and grabbed his arm.

“I don't want you to,” she said loudly. “I don't want Wim to know what's happening if he sees you in there.” And there was more to it than that. She wanted him next to her, for one last night. It had never dawned on her that night when she dressed for their dinner party that this was going to be the last day and night of their marriage. She wondered if he knew he was going to tell her that night. She felt like a fool now remembering how worried she had been about him when he looked tired as he came in. This was obviously what had been eating at him, not the merger.

“Are you sure you don't mind my sleeping here?” he asked, looking worried. He wondered if she was going to do something insane, like try to kill herself or him, but he could see in her eyes that she wouldn't. She was heartbroken, but not unbalanced. “I can go back to the city now, if you prefer.” To Rachel. To his new life. Away from her forever. It was the last thing she wanted, as Paris looked at him and shook her head.

“I want you to stay.”
Forever. For better or worse, until death do us part, just like you promised twenty-four years ago
. She couldn't help but wonder how he could throw their life away and forget those vows. Easily, apparently. For a thirty-one-year-old woman and two little boys. It was as though the years he had shared with Paris had vanished in the blink of an eye.

He nodded and went to put his pajamas on, as she sat in the chair and stared into space. And when he came back, he got into bed, lay there stiffly, and then turned off his light. And then after a long moment, he spoke without looking at her, or reaching out. She could hardly hear his voice as she blew her nose.

“I'm sorry, Paris…I never thought this would happen…. I'll do anything I can to make this easier for you. I just didn't know what else to do.” He sounded helpless and forlorn as he lay in their bed for the last time.

“You can still give her up. Will you at least think about it?” she said, loving him so much she was not afraid to beg. Getting rid of Rachel was her only hope.

There was a long silence from the bed, and finally he answered her. “No, I won't. It's too late for that. There's no turning back now.”

“Is she pregnant?” Paris asked, sounding horrified. She hadn't even thought of that. But even if she was, Paris would rather suffer the indignity of an illegitimate child of his than lose him entirely. It had happened to other men before, and their marriages managed to survive. If he wanted it to, theirs could as well. But he didn't want to preserve their marriage. That much was obvious to her.

“No, she's not pregnant. I just think I'm doing the right thing for me, maybe for both of us. I love you, but I don't feel about us the way I used to. You deserve more than that. You need to find someone who loves you the way I once did.”

“That's a rotten thing to say. What am I supposed to do? Put out ads? You're just tossing me out there, like a fish you're throwing back, and telling me to find someone else. How convenient for you. I've been married to you for more than half my life. I love you. I would have stayed married to you till I died. What am I supposed to do?” Just thinking about what he was doing to her filled her with terror and despair. She had never felt so frightened in her entire life. Her life as she had known it had ended, and the future seemed fraught with terror and danger and misery. The last thing she wanted was to find someone else. All she wanted was him. They were married. To her, that was sacred. And apparently less so to him.

“You're beautiful, and intelligent, and a good person. You're a wonderful woman, Paris, and a good wife. Some man is going to be lucky to have you. I'm just not the right one anymore. Something changed.… I don't know what it is, or why … but I know it did. I can't be here anymore.” She sat and stared at him for a long time, and then slowly got up out of her chair, and went to stand next to him, on his side of the bed, and sobbing quietly, she sank to her knees, and bowed her head on the bed. He lay there in bed, staring up at the ceiling, afraid to look at her, as tears rolled out of the corners of his eyes and onto his pillow, and gently he stroked her hair. For all its tender agony, and all the ancient feelings it evoked in both of them, they both knew that it was the last moment of its kind they would ever share.

Chapter 2

The next morning dawned
in utter splendor with an insultingly brilliant blue sky and bright sun. Paris wanted it to be rainy and gloomy outside, as she turned over in bed and remembered what had happened the night before. And as soon as she did, she began to cry and looked over to find Peter, but he was already in the bathroom, shaving. And she put on a bathrobe and went downstairs to make coffee for both of them. She felt as though she had been trapped in some surreal tragic movie the night before, and maybe if she talked to him coherently in the bright light of day, everything would change. But she needed coffee first. As though she had been beaten, every inch of her ached. She hadn't bothered to comb her hair or brush her teeth, and her carefully applied makeup from the night before was streaked below her eyes and on her face. Wim looked up in surprise as she walked in. He was eating toast and drinking orange juice, and he frowned when he saw his mother. He had never seen her look that way before, and wondered if she'd had too much to drink at the party and was hung over, or maybe she was sick.

“You okay, Mom?”

“I'm fine. Just tired,” she said, pouring a glass of orange juice for his father, maybe for the last time ever, with the same sense of unreality she had had the night before. Maybe this was just a bad patch they were going through. It had to be that. He couldn't mean he wanted a divorce, could he? She was suddenly reminded of a friend who had lost her husband to a heart attack on the tennis court the year before. She had said that for the first six months after he died, she kept expecting him to walk through the door and laugh at her, and tell her it was all a joke and he was just kidding. Paris fully expected Peter to recant everything he had said the night before. Rachel and her sons would then vanish politely into the mists, and she and Peter would go on with their life as before. It was temporary insanity, that was all, but when Peter walked into the kitchen fully dressed and looking grim, she knew it wasn't a joke after all. Wim noticed how serious he looked too.

“Are you going to the office, Dad?” he asked, as Paris handed Peter the glass of orange juice, and he took it from her with a stern expression. He was hardening himself for the ugly scene he expected when Wim left, and he wasn't far wrong. She was planning to beg him to give up Rachel and come home. There was no sense of humiliation with their shared life on the line. And it was a strain for both of them to have Wim in their midst, sharing their final moments. Wim sensed that something was wrong, and wondered if they'd had an argument, although that was rare for them, and a minute later, taking his toast with him, he went back to his room.

Peter had finished the orange juice by then, and half the cup of coffee she'd poured for him, and he stood up, and started to go upstairs to pick up his things. He was only taking an overnight bag with him. He was going to come out during the week and pack up the rest. But he knew he needed to get out now as quickly as he could, before she broke down again, or he said things he didn't want to say to her. All he wanted to do now was leave.

“Can we talk for a few minutes?” she asked, following him into their bedroom, as he picked up his bag and looked at her unhappily.

“There's nothing left to say. We said it all last night. I have to go.”

“You don't have to do anything. You owe it to me to listen at least. Why don't you at least think about this? You may be making a terrible mistake. I think you are, and Wim and Meg will too. Let's agree to go to counseling, and at least try to make this work. You can't just throw away twenty-four years for some girl.” But he had, and wanted to. He was hanging on to his affair with Rachel like the life preserver that would save him from drowning in the world that he and Paris had once shared. And right now he wanted to get as far away from her as he could. She was the one thing standing between him and the future he wanted desperately, with another woman.

“I don't want to go to counseling with you,” he said bluntly. “I want a divorce. Even if I stop seeing Rachel, I realize now that I want out. I want more than this. Much, much more. And you should too. We've drifted apart. Our life is dead, like an old tree that needs to be chopped down before it falls over and kills someone. And the person it's liable to kill right now is me. Paris, I can't do this anymore.” He wasn't crying when he said it, he didn't even look remorseful this time. He looked determined. His survival was at stake, and he wasn't going to let Paris keep him from what he wanted, no matter what she said. He knew she loved him, and he loved her too. But he was in love with Rachel and wanted a life with her. He was going to drive to New York now and spend the rest of his life with her. And nothing Paris could do or say would stop him. And she could see precisely that on his face. It was over for him. As far as Peter was concerned, their marriage was dead. And all Paris had to do now was accept it, as far as he was concerned, and move on. Easier said than done.

“When did all this happen? When you met that girl? She must be fabulous in bed to turn you around like this.” She hated herself for saying it, but she couldn't help herself. And without saying a word, he picked up his bag, walked out of the room and down the stairs, while Paris watched him. He turned to look at her when he got to the bottom of the stairs, and she felt her stomach turn over as though she had been kicked.

“I'll call you about the details. I think you should use someone in my office. I can use another firm if you want. Are you going to talk to the kids?” He talked about it like a deal he was making, or a trip, and she had never seen him look as cold. There was no sign of the guilt and tenderness he had shown her the night before. The door to the magic kingdom was closing forever. And she knew as she looked at him that she would forever remember that moment, as he stood in khaki slacks and a crisply starched blue shirt, with the sunlight streaming across his face. It was like remembering the moment when he had died, or the way he looked at the funeral parlor. She wanted to fly down the stairs and cling to him, but she didn't. She just looked at him, and nodded. And without another word, he turned, and walked out the front door, as she continued to stand there, feeling her knees shaking. And seconds later she heard him drive away.

She was still standing there, when Wim walked out of his room in shorts and T-shirt with a baseball cap on. He looked puzzled when he looked at her.

“Are you okay, Mom?” She nodded, but couldn't say anything. She didn't want him to see her cry, or get hysterical, and she couldn't tell him yet. She didn't feel up to it. She couldn't imagine when she ever would. And she knew she had to tell Meg too. “Did Dad leave for work?” She nodded again, and smiled eerily at him as she patted his arm, and walked back into her room.

She lay on their bed, and could still smell Peter's cologne on the pillow. Her friend whose husband died said she hadn't changed the sheets for weeks, and Paris wondered if she would do that too. She couldn't imagine a life without Peter. And she wondered why she wasn't angry at him. She didn't feel anything except terror, as though she knew something terrible had happened, and she couldn't remember what. But she knew. At the core of her, she knew. Every fiber of her being knew that she had lost the only man she'd ever loved, and as she heard the front door close when Wim went out, she rolled over onto Peter's side of the bed, buried her face in his pillow, and sobbed uncontrollably. The world she had known and loved for twenty-four years had just ended. And all she wanted was to die with it.

Chapter 3

The phone rang several times that weekend
, and she never answered it. The answering machine was on, and she knew later that the calls were from Virginia, Natalie, and Meg. She was still hoping that Peter would call and tell her he'd been insane and was coming home, but he never did. Wim came in and out of her room several times to tell her his plans. She stayed in bed and told him she had the flu.

On Sunday night she had to get up to cook dinner for Wim. He'd been doing homework in his room all afternoon, and he came downstairs when he heard her rattling pots and pans. She was standing in the kitchen, looking confused. She didn't know what she was doing, or what to cook for dinner, and she looked up with an anguished expression when he walked into the room.

“Are you still sick? You look terrible. I can make something if you want.” He looked worried about her, he was a sweet boy, and he could see how rotten she felt, what he didn't know was why. And then he looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Where's Dad?” He had come home from a date at one in the morning, the night before, and hadn't seen his father's car in the garage. “He's really working late these days.” Paris just stared at him, and sat down at the kitchen table in her pajamas. She hadn't combed her hair in two days, or showered since Friday night, which was more than unusual for her. She always looked immaculate, and even when she wasn't feeling well, she made the effort to get dressed and come downstairs. Wim had never seen her look so distraught. “Mom?” he said, with a worried expression, “is something wrong?” All she could do was nod, as her eyes met his. She had no idea how to tell him what had happened.

“Your father and I had a pretty serious talk on Friday night,” she said as he sat down at the kitchen table across from her, and she reached for his hands and held them tight. “I didn't realize it, and I guess that was stupid of me,” she said, fighting back the tears that she had wallowed in all weekend, but she knew she had to do this right for Wim. He would remember this moment for the rest of his life.