Page 56 of The Affair
Is this the path I was never supposed to take, Nana?
* * *
Friday, March 14, 2008
Much of what I write now is from memory. These events have come and gone, but I know if I don’t record them, I might never have the time, and I don’t want to die with regrets weighing on these old shoulders of mine.
I remember my mother telling me when she felt herself growing close to the end. She began doing practical things, like updating her will and power of attorney. But there were other things too. She wrote letters to the grandchildren and gave items to the church. It was almost as if she were preparing for a long journey.
I guess, in some ways, it’s similar. I’ve only ever been on one real vacation. It was my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and George wanted to do something nice with the small bonus the factory had given him. I’d never been far away from home, not even for my honeymoon, and I had such a sense of dread that I’d forget something. Now that I feel my own time coming to a close, I feel that same deep dread. There are certain things I want to accomplish—letters I want to write, contributions I need to make, and lastly, this journal.
I could simply let these memories go with me, knowing they would disappear and none would be the wiser to my indiscretions. But after everything I’ve been though, like watching the man I married slowly fade away, I know now that memories, even the ones that make us uncomfortable, must be remembered.
I never meant for any of this to happen.
I never meant to have an affair.
I didn’t wake up one day and decide I was going to go out and become an adulteress. One simply doesn’t do that—at least, not at my age.
My visits with William started out as a way to help make his life easier. He was recovering from hip surgery, and I was happy to deliver groceries and such to his house during that time.
We’d never been very close, him and me. The damage to William and George’s relationship had been done long before I came around, and I wasn’t one to stick my nose in where it didn’t belong. They were brothers in name only.
William lived on the outskirts of town during most of our marriage, keeping to himself, while we raised our children and lived our lives. It wasn’t until George went into the nursing home that William moved off his farm to retire.
And I guess that’s where our story begins.
I barely noticedthe sound of the door opening as Sawyer made his way back into the house.
“Hello?” he announced, his voice carrying into the living room. “I’m home!”
I knew his words were supposed to be taken in jest, and in response, I was supposed to laugh, but the journal entry I’d just read was still ricocheting around in my head like fireflies trapped in a mason jar. Thoughts and questions everywhere.
I looked up to find him staring at me, his arms full of grocery bags.
“You have that look,” he said.
“What look?”
“I haven’t quite nailed it down yet,” he confessed. “I’m still working on deciphering it. But I see it on you a lot.” His hand rose, the paper bags came too, and he pointed to my forehead. “You get these lines in your forehead like you’re deep in thought, so obviously, you’re mulling something over. And you have this sort of half-frown thing going on, but when you’re really deep in it, you’ll bite your bottom lip.”
My brow raised, I couldn’t tell if I was creeped out by how much he seemed to watch me when I wasn’t looking or a little stunned he knew me so well.
“Anyway,” he said, moving on, “you’ve read some of the new journal?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Clearly, my answer wasn’t sufficient.
“It’s—I …” The fireflies were at it again. Too many thoughts. Not enough words.
“Okay, yeah … that totally makes sense with the face.” He laughed. “I’m going to go put these groceries away. Come help me and take a breather? Then, maybe you can make sense of whatever is going on in that head of yours.”
I didn’t bother answering or asking why he’d picked up groceries for me. I just set the journal aside and followed him into the kitchen.
At first, I found it odd, how at ease he was, as he quickly began unloading the bags, but then I remembered he’d been here nearly twenty-four hours, playing nursemaid while I was sweating out the flu. He seemed to know where mostly everything went, and if he didn’t, he figured it out. He didn’t ask for help, and I stood there rather helpless as he filled my kitchen with foreign items like fresh fruit and all-purpose flour.
