Seventy-Two Hours (8 page)

“I don’t want us to be one of those warring
divorcing couples.”

“I agree. We’ll have to make a conscious
effort to be courteous and patient while we’re hammering out the details. If
we’re fighting, it’s only going to make it more difficult for the boys. I’d
hate for this to affect their grades, or worse, make them feel that they had
something to do with any of our unhappiness.”

“Absolutely. It’s a transition, but it
doesn’t have to be ugly. The boys are going to take their cues from us.”

With my hand still held in his, he lifted it
to his mouth and brushed a kiss across my palm before settling it against the
side of his face. Chris’ comment from earlier in the day about crib notes wasn’t
a joke. We’d been ardent lovers for almost 26 years and we knew each other so
completely. Ending a marriage was emotional business especially when the two
people involved still cared deeply for each other.

Chris’ eyes meet mine and conveyed the pain
behind them. I felt myself lose what little bit of control I’d been struggling
to keep as I began weeping over what constituted as the end of our marriage.
He pulled me down onto his lap and wrapped me up in his embrace while we both
cried. Cried about the past. Cried about the present. And cried, I was
certain, about the unknown future since we’d always approached it together.
But not anymore.

Chris kissed me first. He pressed his lips
against the tears that streaked my face. He held my face in his hands and, in
that moment, something silent was shared between us. We met each other’s mouths
with equal need as maybe the old lovers in us wanted to say goodbye. Our hands
moved over our bodies with a mind of their own. A different kind of strangled cry
left my throat as his large hands moved over my breasts fiercely, punishingly
and yet delivering so much pleasure. I worked to get his shirt off and easily
pulled it over his head as he shifted in the chair to aid my endeavor. I used
his broad shoulders to lift myself up before straddling his lap. His hands
worked under the front of my shirt delivering teasing strokes to my abdomen, my
breasts, and then migrating around to the small of my back where he knew the
skin was so sensitive. My tank top became a distant memory as he tossed it
aside and his lips found a taunt, lace-covered nipple.

And that’s when his cell phone rang. The preprogrammed
ringtone conveying it was work related.

Perhaps conditioned into believing he would always
choose work over me, I pushed myself up, sought my discarded shirt, and walked
away.

“Jenny, wait,” he called after me, but I kept
going.

I padded barefoot down to the lake and
without a second thought, dove in. I swam under water until my lungs felt as
if they were going to burst, and then I floated to the top and took a deep
breath of warm summer air. I treaded water for a while. Just keeping myself
afloat. Sort of a parallel to the current state of my life.

We should have never gotten as carried away
as we had. It only stirred up feelings that weren’t supposed to exist anymore
and would only contribute to more pain. More regret. Even feelings of
confusion. What if Chris returned to his previous stance of wanting to work
things out? It would kill me to endure another experience similar to this
weekend.

March 20, 1991 – Sayre, Pennsylvania

My mother played with my veil for what seemed
like the hundredth time while I waited to take my nuptials inside the sanctuary
of Church of the Redeemer Episcopal Church. It apparently wasn’t draping
properly. Or so she kept muttering. I couldn’t tell which of us was more
nervous. You’d think she was the one getting ready to get married. Maybe, in
a way, she was. She had told me before that, from the moment I was born, she’d
been planning my wedding. It was a mother/daughter thing. At any rate, I was
certain those plans hadn’t included a wedding in which her daughter was four
months pregnant.

I’d been wrong about the time of conception.
My first prenatal visit calculated the pregnancy occurred closer to
Thanksgiving than Christmas and the expected due date was August 20
^th
.
An extra month made all the difference in selecting a suitable wedding gown.
At sixteen weeks, there was a pronounced dome shape to my once flat stomach and
it facilitated the need for a dress style that allowed for comfort and
expansion. We weren’t trying to conceal the pregnancy from everyone. That
would’ve been foolish. Besides, we weren’t embarrassed by it. Most of our
family and friends knew. Most everyone in our community as well.

The veil wasn’t the only thing not cooperating.
No. The weather was less than favorable as well. In fact, instead of rain, we
woke up to four inches of fresh, powdery snow. According to the TV weatherman,
that was all we were supposed to get. I wasn’t feeling particularly confident.

Finally, my mother stood back and regarded me
with her head tipped to the side a little. “There. I think that’s perfect,”
she replied.

“What if I move my head?” I asked knowing her
answer already.

“Don’t,” she said with a laugh that was
accompanied by a warning look.

My mother looked beautiful. Her long
chestnut brown hair was pulled back at the sides and cascaded down in the back
with soft, loose curls. She chose a dress the color of the sky just before a summer
rain storm struck. The bluish-gray hue made her blue eyes look electric. The
sleeveless gown complimented her motherly dimensions making her look curvy and
sophisticated with a splash of silverscreen film goddess. At middle age, my
mother was going to outshine the bride for sure.

She blew me a kiss before rushing out to meet
with my brother. He’d be the one taking her to her seat.

I had two bride’s maids; my friend Lisa and
Chris’ younger sister, Cathleen. They were giggling with excitement as they
waited with me for my dad.

Chris and I wanted to keep our wedding small.
And we did to a certain extent. While the number of people in our wedding
party stayed small, our parents invited half of Bradford County to attend the
ceremony and the other half were invited to join us for the reception being
held at Son’s of Italy.

The ceremony itself seemed to go by in a blur.
Of this, three moments would stay with me forever. The first came when my
father led me down the aisle and my eyes landed on my future husband. He was elegantly
dressed in a black tux with tails. When our eyes met, the nervousness I’d been
feeling dissipated quickly along with any small doubts I had harbored about
what we were doing. In that very moment, I knew everything was as it was meant
to be.

The second moment came after the Declaration
of Consent when Reverend Drake asked, “Who gives this woman?” and my father
stood beside me and replied, “Her mother and I.” He proceeded to lift up my
veil in delicate fashion before giving me a kiss on the cheek. He whispered
something to me in such a way that only Chris and possibly the Reverend could
hear. He told me he was proud of me. He then shook Chris’ hand. He walked
away with his head held high and an expression of absolute peace on his face
before taking his place beside my mother. I didn’t know how important one word
could be until he said it. He was “proud” of me. So much better than the word
“disappointed” he had said months earlier.

The third moment came about during our vow
exchange. Breaking away from what we rehearsed the evening before, Reverend
Drake announced that Chris had requested a moment to say a few words. Chris
squeezed both of my hands in his larger ones and said, “Jenny, not long after
we began dating in high school, I knew I had met the girl I was going to
marry. As soon as you came into my world, everything and everyone else faded
into the background and you became the center of my universe. We may have been
kids when this all started, but I have had the privilege of watching you grow
into the wonderful woman you are today. I feel like the luckiest man in the
world because I’m marrying my best friend. I love you, Jenny.” Struck dumb, I
simply replied, “I love you, too.”

I promised myself I wasn’t going to cry
during the ceremony, but pregnancy hormones seemed to have a mind of their
own. I needed a tissue and Chris seemed to be at a loss as he checked around
in his pockets and with his best man, my brother, and my priest before he
looked to the pews for help. My mom was quick to come to the rescue as she
hustled up to the alter and gave me a handful of balled up tissues and then
dashed back to her seat without saying a word. I noticed her eyes weren’t dry
either. Tissue emergency eradicated, Reverend Drake resumed the proceedings.
Since this was our family church, my mother insisted on the traditional, longer
ceremony that included multiple scripture readings and Communion.

An hour and ten minutes after it started, it
ended. Chris and I were officially joined as husband and wife. No matter how
hard either of us tried to contain the goofy smiles that formed on our faces
each time we looked at each other, we were unsuccessful. Our happiness was
commented on by everyone that went through the receiving line and it seemed
contagious.

Going into the reception hall, the energy
level and high spirits were palpable. Country folk knew how to have a good
time when all their work was done and there was celebrating to do. Drinks
flowed, food was served, and then the dancing began. While my husband held me
in his arms and we swayed to the music, one thing and one thing alone consumed
my thoughts. I couldn’t wait to be alone with him. In a way, having to stay
at the reception was agonizingly sweet torture. Chris thought so, too.

We made the hour-long commute to Binghamton,
New York where we would spend our wedding night at a downtown luxury hotel.
There would be no honeymoon since both of us had classes to report to come
Monday morning. The drawbacks of being college student newlyweds. Between
school, pregnancy, and wedding planning, I was ready for a vacation.

Satisfied when our belongings were taken care
of, Chris made a dash for the king-size bed and threw his long body across it.
“You know what I’m thinking?” he asked.

I took my shoes off and kicked them aside
before collapsing on to the bed beside him. “What are you thinking?”

He reached out and stroked my cheek while his
eyes lingered on my mouth. “I was thinking I’ve never made love with a married
lady before.”

I threw my head back and laughed throatily, “How
ironic, I’ve never been with a married man before.”

“What a coincidence.”

I met his hazel gaze and said, “I wonder if
it’s going to feel any different between us?”

“Because were married now?” he asked with a
peaked eyebrow. “Of course it will. It’s going to turn a great thing into
something even better.”

And, suddenly, the exhaustion from the long
day drifted away as my husband proved his point so many blessed times, I lost count.

Present Day

I decided to air dry after my swim. No sense
repeating yesterday’s actions and dripping water all over the floor and
stripping in the entry. Avoiding Chris may have been a deciding factor as
well. I was on the dock, flat on my back, and soaking up the rays of the early
afternoon sun. Another gorgeous day at the lake. Being there was something I
could definitely get used to in my spare time. As I was thinking that, another
thought crossed my mind. In a second or two of deliberation, I decided that I
was going to take a week or two and go away somewhere. I didn’t look at it as
running away so much as it was getting away. We all needed time to ourselves
so we could get re-centered. Ending my marriage was an action I brought on,
but it didn’t mean it was coming easily. I needed some time to accept it.

And then would be the chore of telling our
family and friends about our split. My friends, those closest to me, knew my
frustration level had grown exponentially with my husband over the past year so
it wouldn’t be a complete shock to them. They’d be saddened, but understanding
and supportive. Our families were going to be the antithesis of
understanding. My parents would voice their disapproval and do their best to persuade
me to work things out. My mother was fond of saying, “Marriage, like everything
else, takes a lot of hard work to make it right.” She’d tell me that if I was
unhappy, I should do my best to work with my husband to change it. I had
complained to her on several occasions about Chris’ absences. She would remind
me about how important his job was and how many people relied on him to do it
right, including our family of five. I’d hear how, with a husband like Chris,
I’d never have to worry about him cheating on me with someone else because he
was deeply committed to me. After comments like that, I wanted to tell her
that being ignored was practically just as bad.

I flipped onto my stomach rolling the bottom
of my tank top up so I could get some sun on my back. I even curled the
waistband of my shorts down a full turn. I’d probably fry my skin. Creamy ivory
complexion was something else my father had passed down to my brother and me along
with the auburn hair.

I felt someone approaching as the dock shook
with little tremors before I heard it. I stayed still. Maybe he’d think I was
asleep. Or dead. Whatever.