The Other Lover

The Other Lover..... and Other Forms of Attachment

After eight years of knowing one another and in there, five years of marriage, you’d figure you’d know a person. At least, that’s what I figured. I thought I knew everything about this man. I mean I’ve danced with him drunk, comforted when he’s cried, sobbed in his sadness and leaped in his love and joy. There isn’t a side to him I’ve not known....or so I thought. But if this season in my life has taught me anything it is this: once it feels comfortable, it means it’s going to change.

Enter “ her”. Actually, I knew her first. Thinking on it now, I have the painful confession of admitting I introduced the two of them to each other. She was beautiful, but I was secure in my appearance. She became his friend but our my marriage was based on being best friends. She was fast and daring and powerful and free, I was shy and domestic and a mother of two small children. The slow realization of their relationship was becoming uncomfortable.

He seemed most happy when he was with “her”. I objected when he wanted to spend time alone with her. His male friends would all come over just to look at her and, when my husband wasn’t looking, even brush against her. She was the hit of all of our parties. I regretted ever becoming her friend. I became the woman I so resented in smutty romance novels: the woman scorned. I was determined to get my man back. You know, the whole ”hell hath no fury” feeling.

I started following the two of them as they carpooled to work. I envied her as he took her to lunch everyday. I ground my teeth when he came home and spent hours talking about her. The nerve of this man I thought I knew so well!!

Then I started finding receipts for things he had bought for her. At first I was silent, but when I confronted my husband later he was a loss for words. It was true, she had started to come between us. I was unable to remain complacent.

I demanded he never have anything to do with her. I demanded the two of us go to counseling. I demanded justice and respect and at least credit for 12 hours each of childbirth labor!!

And being the man I knew him to be, he agreed. He agreed to everything. Sometimes, guilt is a wonderful thing.

But it wasn’t as satisfying as I had hoped. I had to understand they still had to carpool together. That was only logical. I had to understand that occasionally they would drive to lunch together. I guess I could accept that. But who could believe that all that “logical time” wouldn’t lead us back to where we began?

I give him credit. I could see he was trying. But her allure was just too much. The distance was getting greater and I sensed trouble. There was no putting my finger on one specific thing, but my intuition was serving me well. He had that funny look about him.

When he started bringing me flowers “just because”. I knew his guilt was returning for some reason. Our arguing got worse. The children were happy to go to their rooms and study. Through the shouting and the blur of the once comfortable people we were I could see the answer to the chaos. “She” was back in the picture again. Who said chaos doesn’t have a pattern? It sure did and I could see it more clear than I could see sky on a cloudless day.

This time I decided to accept defeat. Unhappiness is no state of existence to live in for very long. It’s way too dark and lonely. It’s certainly no place to raise kids.

I sat myself down with a hot cup of tea and had a long talk with myself. Like always, I rehearsed what I’d say so as not to stumble in a moment of emotions. I even met my mother for lunch and practiced the speech on her. She thought me disillusioned for giving up so easily. The whole ”I didn’t raise a quitter” lecture was well under way. I guess I deserved that; a speech for a speech. To my good fortune though, she didn’t get to finish. My cell phone started ringing.

It was my husband. My stomach started protesting the creamed soup I had just consumed as his choppy words flew into my ear. He’d been in a car accident.

The kids with my mother and directions to the scene I chanted my mantra as I drove. “Nothing I said made this happen, Nothing I said made this happen, He’s fine , She’s fine.” All the way there, I chanted. All the way there, I prayed. And while nothing I had said or thought had involved physical pain....at least not much, I still felt guilty and that somehow this was all my fault.

Arriving, I saw him. He was fine. Not even a scratch. Thank you, Supreme Being of the Universe. But then I saw her. She looked terrible. Her body seemed broken, and what once seemed a stronger spirit from whom I could only declare defeat, now seemed fragile and vulnerable.

The experts were called in. The specialists gave us no hope. She would never be the same again. I tried to console my husband. She’s not in any pain. My sympathy fell on deaf ears. When they announced she was gone, my husband sank into a sorrow. A thick, black and consuming sorrow. What would be strong enough to pull him from this unreachable place? A whisper came to my ear: friends and family.

Today, I am having a wake. She was my friend. She was my enemy. She was my husband’s other love. And from my guilt, I feel I must make it up to them both for all the resentment and distrust. And from my heart, I write this with humor and love.

After all, she’s gone now. My husband says nothing will ever replace her. He is factually right...They don’t make parts for a 1976 CJ7 anymore. At least that’s what the insurance company says.

I love you, Gabe. Sorry they couldn’t fix her. -Michele