Heart of the Matter (41 page)

“She
thought
she was,” he says. “But. . . she wasn’t. Love doesn’t work like that.”

“Oh?” I say. “How
does
it work, Nick?”

He stands and rotates to Frankie’s seat, now next to me, where he reaches for my hand. I shake my head in refusal but when he tries again, I reluctantly give it to him, my eyes welling with his touch.

“Love is sharing a life together,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Love is what
we
have.”

“And what did you have with her?”

“That was . . . something else.”

I stare at him, struggling to make sense of his words. “So you didn’t love her?”

He sighs, glances at the ceiling, and then looks at me again. I say a prayer that he doesn’t lie to me, that he doesn’t issue a flat-out denial when I know he loved her. Or at least thought he did.

“I don’t know, Tess,” he begins. “I really don’t... I wouldn’t have done what I did if I didn’t have strong feelings for her. If it wasn’t something at least approaching love, something that looked and felt like love . . . But those feelings—they don’t compare to my love for you. And the moment I came home and looked into your eyes and told you what I had done, I knew that. . . Tessa, I messed up so bad. I risked everything— our marriage, my job, this home. I still don’t know why I let it happen. I
hate
myself for letting it happen.”

“You didn’t
let
it happen, Nick,” I say, pulling my hand away from him. “You
made
it happen. It took two. It took both of you.”

As I say the words, though, I am struck by how much they apply to us, as well. That it took two to get us here. That it
always
takes two. For relationships to work, for them to break apart, for them to be fixed.

“I know,” he says. “You’re right. I’m not trying to shift the blame to anyone else . . . I’m just trying to tell you how much I
love you.”

“Then
how
could you do it?” I say, my voice soft now. It is a question—not an accusation.

He looks at me, struggling for words. “I think . . . I think . . . I was looking for something I thought I needed.”

“And what was that? What was it that you weren’t getting here? From me?” I ask as I begin to answer the question for myself. I refuse to accept any blame for his infidelity, and yet I can’t deny that things have changed between us. That I’ve changed. And that, in many ways, I’m not the person he married. I think of Nick’s recent accusations, as well as my mother’s observations. That I am never happy; that I have lost some of my passion; that I focus on things that don’t matter, rather than our relationship, the bedrock of everything else. “What did she give you?”

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that . . . It was more . . .” He glances up at the ceiling, searching for words, then looks at me and says, “the way I felt when I was around her reminded me of the way I felt for you in the beginning.”

My heart breaks hearing the two of us compared, yet there is comfort in his honesty, in the pain on his face, how much he also wishes it weren’t true.

He continues, “And there were other things, too . . . I felt . . . I felt this
need
to fix things for that little boy—a need that got convoluted and somehow extended to his mother . . . Part of it was probably my ego . . . wanting that feeling—that feeling of being young . . . of being needed and wanted.” His voice trails off, as I remember how vulnerable I was on the subway the day we met.

“
I
needed you.
I
wanted you,” I say, using the past tense, even though a big part of me
still needs
him, still wants him. “But maybe you’re no longer . . . attracted to me?”

I look at him, knowing that he will deny this accusation, but hoping he can do so convincingly.

“No,” he says, letting one clenched fist fall to the table. “That’s not it. It’s not about sex. Except for maybe the feeling of being connected that sex can give you . . . It’s just. . . It’s not that simple, Tess . . . It’s no one thing you can point to.”

I nod, thinking of how difficult marriage can be, how much effort is required to sustain a feeling between two people—a feeling that you can’t imagine will ever fade in the beginning when everything comes so easily. I think of how each person in a marriage owes it to the other to find individual happiness, even in a shared life. That this is the only real way to grow together, instead of apart.

He continues, as if reading my mind. “Life can be tough. And monotonous . .. and exhausting. And it’s not the romantic ride you think it’s going to be when you start out, in the beginning . .. But that doesn’t mean .. . that doesn’t give anyone the right... It didn’t give me the right to do what I did . .. Look, Tess. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a good one. And lately, I think there was no reason at all. Which might be worse. But it’s the truth. And it’s all I have to give you.”

I swallow and nod. Then, despite my determination not to make this conversation about her, I ask whether he’s spoken to her since the day he came home from his walk in the Common.

“No,” he says.

“So you’re not his doctor anymore?” I ask, avoiding Charlie’s name, right along with his mother’s.

“No.”

“And you’re not going to be in his life?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“No.”

“Does that make you sad?”

He sighs, then grimaces. “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t sad . . . that I don’t miss that little boy and feel tremendous guilt for being part of his life and then abruptly leaving. I feel guilty for any pain I could have caused a child. For breaking the first rule of medicine.”

Do no harm,
I think, and then consider
all
the harm he did.

He continues, “But I feel more guilty about you. I can’t really think beyond you . . .
us. My
kids.
Our
family. Most of the time, I can’t think at all. I’m just feeling and remembering and wishing.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, something inside me softening. “What are you feeling and remembering and wishing?”

“I’m feeling . . . the way I felt when I met you on the subway. You were standing there with that ring on your finger, looking so sad. So beautiful. . . And I’m remembering our early days when we were broke and in school and splitting Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner and . . . and when you were pregnant with Ruby and eating two of those lasagnas by yourself.” He stares into space with a faint smile.

“I was eating for two,” I say, the line I used despite the fact that I was actually eating as if pregnant with triplets.

He continues, a faraway look in his eyes. “And I’m wishing . . . I’m wishing that I could somehow get you back. I want you back, Tessa.”

I shake my head, feeling profound sadness for myself and the kids—but also, for the first time, for Nick.

“It won’t be the same,” I say.

“I know,” he replies.

“It will
never
be the same,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “But maybe . . .”

“Maybe
what?”
I ask hopefully.

“Maybe it can be better,” he says—which is exactly what I wanted him to say. “Can we try and find out? Can we try for Ruby and Frank? Can we try for
us?”

I feel myself start to crumble as he stands and pulls me to my feet, taking both of my hands in his. “Please,” he says.

“I don’t know if I can,” I say, tears spilling down my face. “I don’t know if I can
ever
trust you. Even if I wanted to.”

He starts to hold me, then stops, as if realizing he hasn’t yet earned that right. Then he whispers my name and says, “Let me help you.”

My tears continue to flow, but I do not tell him no. Which, of course, we both know is very nearly a yes.

“I can’t make any promises,” I say.

“But I
can”
he says.

“You did that once,” I say, my voice cracking.

“I know. And I’ll do it again. I’ll do it
every
day. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give me one more chance.”

One more chance.

Words that my mother heard, more than once. Words that women debate. Whether you
can
forgive and whether you
should
trust.
I think of all the judgment from society, friends, and family, the overwhelming consensus seeming to be that you should not grant someone who betrayed you a second chance. That you should do everything you can to keep the knife out of your back, and to protect your heart and pride. Cowards give second chances. Fools give second chances. And I am no coward, no fool.

“I’m so sorry,” Nick says.

I envision him on our wedding day as we exchanged our vows, hearing his words:
Forsaking all others as long as we both shall live.

That was the way it was supposed to be.

That didn’t happen.

Yet here we are, two children and a broken promise later, standing before each other, just the way we stood that day at the altar, with equal parts love and hope. And once again, I close my eyes, ready to take a leap of faith, ready for the long, hard road ahead. I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, but then again, I never really did.

“Can I make you breakfast?” he says. “Eggs, sunny side up?”

I look into his eyes, nod, and nearly smile. Not because I’m happy—or hungry. But because my husband is home. Because he knows that sunny-side-up eggs are my favorite. And because I believe that, buried beneath disappointment and fear, anger and pride, I just might find it in my heart to forgive.