“Have
you ever cheated on me?” How were these
words coming out of my mouth? I was
married to a “good Catholic boy,” after all.
The revelation that the “good Catholic boy” designation was
self–professed came to light as I stood in the garage the day after Christmas watching
my illusions that he was actually “a good man underneath it all” dissipate into
a smoky haze. New just-played-with toys
were scattered all over the house, wrapping paper was overflowing the trash
cans, and the boys were still riding high from candy-filled stockings and the
excitement of Santa’s visit.
I
stood behind the kitchen door in the garage watching my husband sobbing. He said his friends had advised him not to
tell me anything, but he had decided to be honest and answer any question I
wanted to ask.
“Hang
on,” I said.
The
boys were two, four and six years old. I
couldn’t leave them unattended for more than a few minutes. I opened the door to peer inside. Through the kitchen and into the living room,
I saw the Christmas tree lights shimmering, the stockings flung on the floor,
toys and candy strewn about. The smell
of the Christmas tree hit me as I scanned the kitchen still covered with
Christmas morning donuts and cookies. The
boys were quietly playing. The middle
one was watching a Christmas movie, the youngest was riding his new tractor,
and the oldest was playing his new video game.
I
turned back into the darkness of the garage and closed the door. I looked around to see our life in the
shadows. Christmas boxes were awaiting
pick-up. Bikes, rakes, and tools were haphazardly arranged. Boxes of outgrown clothes were awaiting the
next boy’s growth spurt.
“Have you ever
cheated on me?”
I don’t know why
I asked this question. We had many
problems, but nothing I believed was insurmountable. He was a good person underneath it all. He was a good person underneath his white
lies, misrepresentations and failure do the things he said he would do that
apparently whittled away at my ability to trust him and prompted my question.
“Um, well, not really,” he said.
Not really? This was not a definitive answer to my question. This question should have a definitive
answer, and at that moment, I knew. His
penchant for rationalizing bored full-force into me, and I felt invisible to
myself. Everything I knew to be true was
a lie. As I listened to an endless
description of what specific acts he believed constituted cheating, I felt as
though I had left my body and was watching this scene from above myself.
“Hang on.” I had to come back to myself and check on the
kids.
I opened the
door again to check on the boys. They
were getting a bit restless, running around the living room, flinging toys up
in the air as they giggled and shrieked.
Frosty the Snowman was blaring
from the TV.
My mind replayed
the last week as I watched them. The Christmas
Eve service at church, the Sunday School Christmas party, making cookies with
my parents, all of it was so normal. I told
them to finish the movie, and I would give them a bath.
When I turned
back to the dimly lit garage, I began to ask questions with surreal calm. I had to chip away at his resistance to the
truth despite him offering to answer any question. He began to sob harder and
harder as he related a tale of infidelity spanning five years of our ten-year
marriage.
“Who?”
“I don’t know,”
he said.
“What do you
mean you don’t know?” I could not fathom his answer as I once again had left my
body, floating above and watching this happen to me.
“I don’t know
who they are.”
“How many?”
“Too many to
count.”
At that moment,
my two-year-old came bounding out of the house, all grins and wanting to play. The bright light of the kitchen fell on my
husband’s tear-streaked face. I stepped
to block my son from seeing him, scooped him up and carried him back
inside. I asked my 6 year-old to play
with him for a few minutes before their bath and I would be right back.
“I don’t have
any more questions,” I said. I turned
back into the house filled with lights, music and the sweet faces of innocent,
giggling boys. I shut the garage door to
the man I never really knew. And I was
free.
