the best laid plans
and all that . . .
Take all of the hypothetical, overimaginative, nonsensical possible outcomes to the deposition, multiply them by sixteen, and then add in about five thousand other scenarios—nowhere in that vast panorama did I envision the prospect that the major finding would be a wife. For the defendant.
I was stunned, repulsed, saddened, infuriated. They say grief progresses through phases of shock, denial, anger, and acceptance. I’m not sure of the estimated arrival and departure times for each jaunt, but in this case, I tore through the entire itinerary, leaped clean over acceptance and made it back to shock before the court reporter’s fluid fingers had hit the keys on yes. And that revelation was compounded by the fact that when Travis revealed the unthinkable, he looked at me and I’m pretty sure he smiled, a kind of flat smile, like he was introducing her to me. Some introduction.
I was upset before, understandably. He didn’t seem to have enough faith in me to believe that I had nothing to do with filing the lawsuit. That was one thing. But I figured we’d work that out. That was a hiccup. A glitch. A silly misunderstanding.
This—this was another story. One that seemed to be jumping straight to “the end.” Married? How in the world was that possible? What loving God would allow that to be true? And in the tiny fissures opening between the shock and anger and denial, why hadn’t I had even the slightest inkling that it was coming?
Then it hit me. Karma. I was being punished for my experiment. I’d taken to calling it an experiment because it seemed somehow less offensive. But not to whomever called the shots in the realm of Karmic Retribution, apparently. There, high on the mountain, it was known by a term as old as the human ability to give voice to thought. Lying. My pants off. Had I done this to myself? I wondered.
My mother took that shocking admission as her cue to push her chair back from the table at an angle and disengage from the deposition. Which was good, because this little movement distracted me from the certainty that I was about to pass out. If there were an audible sound that went along with a heart breaking it would have drowned out all the lawyer-speak that went on as we gathered our things and left the conference room. In one instant I saw my future with Travis disappear. In this model it was his fault, but in another it could have easily been mine. He could have found out I was faking and told me to make like my memory and get lost. But then I’d have had the opportunity to beg his forgiveness. To explain and grovel and . . . something. But this took it out of my hands completely. There was nothing I could say to explain his wife away. No amount of pleading or good deeds could reverse it.
His wife. I hated those words. Hated the pictures, too, that sprung into being—wedding, moving in together, laundry mingled in one hamper, groggy searches for toothbrushes on brittle mornings, warm embraces. The phone answering machine message:
SHE: Hi, this is Moojie Moo—
HE: And Travis . . .
SHE: We’re not home right now . . .
HE: But leave a message . . .
SHE: And sure as the sunrise, we’ll get back to you soon!
BOTH: Tee-hee!
ME: *Barf*.
How could he have forgotten to mention that one crucial detail? I couldn’t help wondering what she was like. How’d they meet? Were they happy? They couldn’t be. He had his own apartment. Or did he? Was he separated? Did they have kids? Was there life insurance with mutual beneficiary agreements involved? The questions raced through my mind at a dizzying pace. Just how dumb had I been?
* * * * *
Outside, I could barely breathe. Partially because it was so cold that the air stung with every inhalation but mostly because of the gut punch. My mom had offered to take me home, but I shooed her away, not wanting to be anywhere near her. It was one of those times that a girl really wants her mom too. I just didn’t want the one I had.
Cold as it was, I was in no hurry to get home. I walked from the business district through various neighborhoods, finally winding up in the West Village watching some kids playing ball across the street, shouting, chasing, celebrating the mindless abandon of being kids. How lucky they were, to have no idea of the bullshit they had in front of them. Life was hard.
If I knew what being a grown-up was all about, I’d have milked every second of my youth. I’d have watched a little less TV, for one thing. And ignored more requests for help around the house. Not that chores are bad, but my sister had consumed the equivalent of both our childhoods in chore avoidance. Wistfully, with perfect hindsight, I thought in that moment that I’d have found this very playground and a game like this. One boy in particular looked back at me furtively, pretending not to notice me just a stone’s throw away. He was red-faced in the cold, and his head seemed to be popping out of his coat from the immense pressure his collar exerted. When someone would charge at him, he would dodge and fall, then scramble up and quickly look back to see if I was still there. And I was, stepping a little closer to the low fence without even thinking about it, dazed, sad, lost again, looking around me to see that this place wasn’t home, not anymore, not hearing even the raucous rising tide of their voices when they shouted something I never heard. Until it was too late.
“Look out!”
There was only a wailing in the distance, like a siren, getting closer and closer and closer. Until I figured out it was my own voice.