Folie à Deux (28 page)

It tears me up to know that I have not been able to apply the brakes to this. I want to be home with my kids but crave this attention from Talia too. I miss my life but I’m not sure exactly why. I want to stop but don’t know if it’s out of obligation or because the pain I am causing so many people. Worse yet, I fear the realization that I’ll not be able to prevent tonight’s events before they’re over.

I climb into the back seat, as soon as I sit she’s in my lap with her mouth pressed against mine. She tastes fruity, like whatever flavor gum she was chewing at the beach. Passing cars startle me not because I fear anyone coming into the parking lot but the road is so desolate, they pass infrequently. Our kiss lasts a long time so I open my eyes often to see her reaction. I only see the tiniest sliver of white peeking through her eyelids, she is engrossed. I’m more daring with my hands, relying on this special occasion to provide dispensation. She offers no protest when I
remove her shirt and bra, only contorts her body in ways that invite me to continue. I glance at the clock on the dash board, reading 3:25 and realize I will not be home before daybreak even if I left at this moment.

She becomes more voracious, I reciprocate. She takes my hand and puts it down her sweatpants, first feeling the perspiration where waistband touches skin. I fumble slightly from nerves and a trace of conscience to find what she wants. She sighs deeply and sensuously, extremely aroused. Her hips quiver and rock upward violently as if my reluctance has only served to entice. She is beyond excited and I am distraught at earwitnessing the throes of her passion. Within moments of adjusting my hand, providing relief for my aching wrist she puts her mouth to my ear and says, “Please make love to me.”

I am frozen. I knew this was coming, even speculated that she may ask tonight because she is swept up in Mr. Cunneely coming to see her.

My answer comes from someplace genuine, “No, Honey. Not here. Not in the back of a car. I will not let that be the first time that you have sex.” I sicken even myself with feigned chivalry. I mean the response but that request should have never left her mouth. I should never have put her in this position, manipulated into thinking that anything about this is altruistic.

Nobody likes being rejected when requesting sex, especially for the first time. Her expression is hurt and confused.

I hug her and explain, “It’ll mean so much more if it isn’t in the back seat of a car at four in the morning in an auto body parking lot.”

It seems to placate her slightly but I know she’s upset, which I’m about to amplify, “Listen, I should be going.”

She immediately pulls away, angrily puts her shirt on and says, “Fine, just leave.”

“Hey, Talia, come on, I have a long ride and I’ve been up all night. Can you please take it easy on me?” trying to make sense of the senseless situation I’ve authored.

She stares before wrapping her arms around me, “I know you drove far and I don’t want you to get into an accident, but I just don’t want you to leave.”

I seize the moment of solidarity, “I don’t want to leave either but I have to.”

As we are drawing to a close, I feel it, the panic that precedes the disgust in my gut. I’m beginning the transition back into a father who does not engage in late night trysts with a student. My regret is building. I’m torn between wanting to be back with my children, the part of my adult life that I love, and wanting to stay here, hiding from the frightening realities of that same life.

I drive back to the same convenience store and watch her walk into her cousin’s house. I leave, nervous about reversing the directions correctly and nervous about facing Dana, almost certain she’ll know what I’ve done. I am worried that my story won’t fly because I’ll need to account for my whereabouts for the entirety of the night. Most terribly, I am petrified to think of my irreversible steps.

Rush hour traffic delays my arrival to Frank’s house by ninety minutes so I miss breakfast. Jenny’s warm greeting when I walk through the door does not balance the anger Dana shoots at me from the other side of the kitchen. I’m left speechless with palpable guilt when greeted with my son’s adorable joy, “Daddy! Good morning. Where were you?”

I kiss my three children and ignore his question. My love for them is the only thing that outweighs my own self-loathing.
I wish so badly that it could overpower the inexplicable forces driving my demise.

There are many theories that try to define cancer. How does it form? Who is predisposed and how can it be prevented? An interesting yet controversial theory has been posited by the renowned and criticized biologist, Peter Duesberg. Cancer, according to Duesberg’s theory, occurs when chromosomes fail to divide properly. When cells divide, called mitosis, twenty three pairs of chromosomes line up and divide perfectly to allow for the forty six individual chromosomes to take form. One from each pair of forty six is passed on to each of two daughter cells.

If the division is erroneous the pairs split eccentrically and one cell is given too much material while the other receives an insufficient amount, called aneuploidy. It is often fatal to the cells, however in some instances the aneuploidic cells survive. The yielding cells repeat this process in an exponential yet unpredictable manner causing even more bizarre changes in subsequent chromosomes.

As each generation of new cells lacks the proper information with which to bestow to its descendant the process produces cells that are increasingly unrecognizable. The cells now lack the identity of anything that one would be able to distinguish as human. It’s neither a cell from a heart, nor a fingernail, nor a brain. This cluster now grows without regard for what they should be or how they should act.

The controversy that stems from this theory is based on the fact that the most commonly accepted theories on the topic contend that aneuploidy is the result of cancer not the cause. Regardless, the cancer is abnormal and should neither be the result, nor the cause of the natural process of reproducing cells. The confusing placement of normal components of my being
explains how I’m able to reach this far on a path of self-destruction, with immoral, unnatural behavior yet be able to rein it in when faced with the prospect of engaging in intercourse with Natalia.

When I was an adolescent I had no choice but to split off parts of my mind in order to cope. More specifically to make sure that no one else had the ability to see their mutant formation, their carved off aspects had to be a secret. I had no idea what the next day’s choices and dilemmas were going to bring. I was forced to base today’s decisions on yesterday’s inconsistent outcomes and capricious emotions.

I never knew what new lies had to be told or how to act from one day to the next. A malformed product of a distorted experience. A split from a misshapen split and it wreaked havoc. Like ripping off a paper towel at the perforation but missing it ever so slightly. It will continue to grow or shrink at random intervals making the predetermined rips useless. With each decision, based on a prior, unwholesome memory my moral compass diverts from true north at barely perceptible intervals.

The carved off pieces of my psyche are sometimes identifiable. They surface at times when they are useful and help the general well-being of my mind. Had that same split with my conscience spoken up at any point prior to sitting in the car and driving to Maryland, events may have been altered for the better. But this is not the case. I am always at full blown disaster level before I see the spot to save myself. At that point, bringing measures to a grinding halt is always dangerous and potentially painful. I have come to learn the harsh reality that abandoned parts of the psyche in one’s youth come back with uncontrollable force later in life.

Like water will find a way to infiltrate a leaky roof, even when seemingly impossible, we find ways to circumvent all obstacles, continuously feeding the obsession. We see one another no matter what. No suggestion is ignored nor deemed too risky; no possibility unexamined.

When Natalia suggests, “Since my room is in the basement of our townhouse and Mama is two floors away, I could easily get out in the middle of the night,” I play along not because I like the idea, rather I’m afraid to say, “No.” I agree with concealed reluctance and step further down this unthinkable path.

“Where will we go? What if your mom comes down? Where will I park at that time of night?” She has answers that all seem simple enough to ease my mistrust.

Leaving my house poses no problem. Every night since the beginning of our marriage Dana has fallen asleep on the couch only to wake up sometime in the early morning and come to bed. I convey my objections and like so many other parts of our marriage that I find upsetting the onus is turned back on me.

She tells me with her typical couth, “I would act differently, Jim if you behaved appropriately. You expect to just come home and have me spread my legs.” Dana is adept at making me regret having ever broached my feelings. When I express emotions I hope to speak about them and work toward a resolution. Instead,
I am treated to a litany of my character flaws. If I would be nicer, more domestic, more compassionate she would be a better wife. With the disclaimer that nobody is perfect I assure her that I am faithful — these conversations all take place before my infidelity- and that those are attributes I not only possess but feel and express. Thus begins our game of rejection tag.

Sex is not the issue. I genuinely want to fall asleep together. I want the security of ending the day next to my wife, the mother of my children. I beg and cajole and sometimes, at my wits end I emote, telling her with transparent cynicism, “You wake me up when you come to bed so close to my alarm and I cannot fall back to sleep.” It’s untrue, but I hope motivation. It does nothing and I feel equally alone.

The Friday night of our newest plan, I tell Dana that I’m going to bed at what seems a normal time. I turn on the bedroom TV and wait patiently. After an hour, I slowly open our door to see what she is doing. True to form, she has fallen asleep in front of the television, always in the same position, half lying down, one foot on the floor and the other sprawled out in front of her.

Once I’m certain she is asleep, I return to our bedroom and climb out the window. As I drop my feet out first and lower myself down I’m trembling. I walk around the side of the house and to my car. Once inside I stare at my front door waiting for Dana to come running out and demand to know where I am going. Earlier in the evening I strapped my bike on the car so that if by chance, Dana did catch me, I would tell her that I was going for a mountain bike ride.

Such a story would not have struck her as odd because it is not uncommon to go for a night ride. At the very least I am going to be chastised for not telling her, but the lie is not unbelievable.
As I sit, silently rehearsing my story, I feel a stab of sadness at how easily and precisely I can manipulate any nuance of my life into a self-serving lie. I chase away that outburst of integrity and continue to recite.

It takes me several minutes to start the car because my next fear is that the sound will wake her. My life is a series of checklists. One item only relates to the others by nature of their interdependent hierarchy. Each step in my path has its ancillary safeguards that, like rocket boosters on a space shuttle, are jettisoned after they are no longer necessary.

Every phase has a contingency and a back-up for the contingency. If she comes out now I’ll tell her I couldn’t sleep and am going for a cup of coffee. Yet, if I get away and she questions me when I return I’ll use the biking story. Being questioned anywhere in between will depend on where I am and how quickly I can be home.

I start the car, remaining still and staring at the front door. I look at the clock on the radio and say out loud to commit to record, “Ok, if she doesn’t look out by 12:22 I’m leaving.” The prescribed three minutes passes without seeing Dana. When no further obstacles beside my own, almost abandoned conscience stand in my way, I leave. I text Natalia, “On my way,” but cannot share in her ecstatic reply.

I pick her up and we sit in the parking lot of Pizza Hut trying to decide what we should do. Choices are limited for a teacher and his student at one a.m. After much deliberation a decision is reached by default. Her unconditional trust in me is humbling if it is, in fact even voluntary at this point.

I take her to a parking lot used to access a scarcely known trailhead. It’s a quiet place on a quiet road. In my estimation, no
place is completely safe but this location, of all I can imagine, affords us the most privacy. This site will become our standard hangout at any time of night or day to kill whatever time we have. It is close enough to Natalia’s house as well as school so minimal time is ever wasted in transit.