My Way Home (St.Gabriel Series Book 1) (St. Gabriel Series) (4 page)

She looked at me, furrowed her brow with
compassion
, and nodded slightly while I rambled on, “Our children are grown but they need us to work this out. They need their parents to be together. Our family is important, important to Race. He’s just confused.”

She didn’t say anything. She was so confident, smug as if she and Race were a done deal. I looked through the glass and saw an armed security guard—
Drats.

When I had run out of steam, she walked behind her desk, took a seat, and said, “Cammy, this is between you and Race. You should really be discussing this with him.” Race, the way she said his name was as if he belonged to her. That’s the way it sounded to me.

My throat hurt, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say or do. I was shaking and glaring at her. She looked back at me with an angelic, serene expression. My mouth opened a few times but nothing came out, so finally, I turned around and left.

This, I followed with a letter to Race,
The Beg, The Big Plead
as I now refer to it. Out of nowhere, I felt an urgent need to write it, and I couldn’t get it to him fast enough.

I won’t include the letter here, too pathetic, although, if it had worked, I might be recommending it. Basically, I told him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me. I chronicled our life together, all that we had, all that Race was giving up, as if it was going to make him suddenly remember, as if he had amnesia, and he would smack himself on the forehead and say, “She’s right. What was I thinking?”

My mother would not have approved. I was chasing a boy. Before it happened to me, I would not have approved. But all of my preconceived notions about what I would do if Race had an affair bared little resemblance to how I actually reacted.

I thought about getting dressed up and taking the letter to Race at the college, but everyone knew me there; instead, since I didn’t even know where he was living, I mailed it to his parents four miles away.

It was weird. The man I had shared a home with, a bed with for the last twenty-five years, I didn’t even know where he was living. And I wondered if it was with her. Three days later he called.

“Hi, Cammy.”

“Hi, Race.”

“I got your letter.”

I was paralyzed, couldn’t say a word, but thought,
Yes, and…

“Cammy, I’m sorry things are the way they are. I can’t change the way I feel. Do you want me to come over so we can talk?”

“No.” I was so humiliated. I had poured out my heart and Race was tossing it back. He didn’t want me anymore. I didn’t want to see him. Not ever. “Race, I have to go. I’m sorry I wrote the letter. I was just… it’s hard. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.”

I hung up and imagined Race and that woman sitting close, intimately, and Sarah Burns recounting to him my confrontation with her at the bank and Race showing her my letter. Did he let her read it? Would they pity me or have a good laugh?

One of the great injustices of the universe is how a man can use up a woman and then get a newer model, one without scratches or dents.

I looked at the stack of self-help books on my nightstand—
Surviving Divorce, Letting Go, What Every Woman Should Know About Divorce,
Healing from the Inside,
and my personal favorite,
Divorce for Dummies
—I’m not kidding.

One had been sent from as far away as Alaska, from my brother Frank, and another came from as near as next door, from my neighbor Lillian, who had been married for fifty-two years when her husband passed away the summer before.

On top of the stack of books, was an Internet article entitled, “The Stages of Grief” that I also received in the mail, sent anonymously like some of the books. Denial and isolation—check. Anger—check. Bargaining, unfortunately, humiliatingly—check. Depression—yes, I was right on schedule. If you’ve never experienced it, it’s very heavy depression and devoid of any kind of light.

The phone rang and I answered it, in case it was Race. I didn’t want him running over, thinking he was going to head off a suicide attempt. It wasn’t him. It was the food bank. The flowers in front of the building that I took care of every week were “wilty” and there were weeds taking over. When would I be down to take care of them? The call reminded me I had a life.

I found Einstein and flipped through my calendar. It had been almost three weeks since I had tended the plants at the food bank or at the animal shelter. I had missed a dentist appointment, two committee meetings, and my Tuesdays and Thursdays working at Minnie’s Garden Center.

I picked up the phone and dialed Susanna, my co-chair for the Habitat for Humanity Fundraising Banquet.

“Oh, Cammy, that’s okay. We’ve got it covered,” said Susanna, who likes titles but not the work so much.

“What do you mean, you’ve got it covered? How? With who?”

“Cammy, I’m so sorry, but you know Tom and Race have been friends since the second grade. This is awkward. But Race being on the Habitat Board and all, we felt it was best not to burden you with the banquet this year.”

Or any year from here on out, no doubt.

“Cammy, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I hope you understand. We think it’s best.”

“I understand.” But I really didn’t.

“Cammy, you and I will stay friends. You know that.”

I didn’t know that. What I did know was that my life was in my husband’s home town, my circle of friends were his friends, holidays were spent with his family, and I was alone.

It was just the beginning of polite terminations of affiliations and friendships. And I noticed the invitations to birthday parties and weddings that never came. And when the Annual Alumni Fundraising Dinner rolled around, I had a sick feeling that Race and Sarah Burns were there, as a couple.

Completely Lost

You can learn a lot about yourself when your marriage falls apart, or during any life crisis I suppose if you’re paying attention. One of the many things I learned about myself is that I hate people to feel sorry for me. I mean I really, really hate people to feel sorry for me. I never realized this because I had always made an effort to make my life look rosy, which it did. I couldn’t hide that Race had left me, but I wasn’t going to broadcast it.

I didn’t call one soul to tell them Race had left. My brother Frank and I talked every week on the phone. So when he couldn’t get a call through at the house and he hadn’t heard from me, he called Race at his office. Then a letter came ordering me to call him,
Cammy, call me as soon as you get this. I mean it!!!

After I called Frank, he told my parents for me. I did eventually have the nerve to call them myself. They are not the touchy-feely types so that was a short conversation.

“Hi, Pop, it’s Cammy.”

“Hello, daughter.”

“Can you ask Mom to pick up the other phone?” I waited.

When he came back on the line, he said, “She’s making supper.”

“Pop, please, ask her to come to the phone for just a minute.” I waited.

“Okay.” My father was back on.

“Mom, you there?”

“Yes,” she said with a huff.

“Frank called and told you about me and Race?”

“Mmm.” It was my father’s, mmm.

“I wanted to call and talk to you about it, to see if you wanted to talk about it.”

“If you do, daughter.” My father again and then silence.

My mother said nothing, but what I imagined she was thinking was pounding on the outside of my skull, trying to get in.
So what did you do to make him leave? You never could finish anything. Maybe that college degree didn’t make you that smart after all.

“Okay, well, hope you’re both doing well.”

“Uhuh,” said my father. “You okay?”

“Yeah, Pop, I’m fine.” I wasn’t fine, but there wasn’t any point in telling them that. “Okay. Bye.” And that was it.

I don’t know for sure, but I think the copy of
Divorce for Dummies
had been sent to me by my mother.

Frank insisted on flying in from Alaska, but I begged him not to. He understood—that’s Frank. Others heard through the grapevine, the Texas telegraph. Apparently Race was telling people, or maybe Sarah Burns was spreading the news.

Fine, if I stay out of sight long enough, it will be old news when I appear in public again.

The most difficult conversation was with Race’s mom. She banged on the windows until I opened the door. When I let her in, she was crying and she used every inch of her five-foot-nine frame to gobble me up in her arms. “Cammy, honey, are you okay? What can I do? We’re here for you. You know that, right?”

And I did know it. She loved her seven children, would never say an ill word against them, but she loved me too. His family loved me and I loved them, adored them. But they were Race’s family, and ultimately that’s where their loyalty would lie.

Loretta, my college roommate my junior and senior years, called from New York. Race’s cousin, who married Loretta’s second ex-husband’s brother after they met at my fortieth birthday party, had called and told her.

Like my daughter Janie, Loretta looks like me, or I look like her. She’s twenty days older than I am. Looking alike, that’s how we met.

My freshmen year of college people insisted I had a double on campus. First day of classes, sophomore year, I walked into Botany and there she sat. I knew the moment I saw her. I approached her, offered my hand, and informed her, “Hi, I’m Cammy, your lost twin. It’s nice to meet you.”

I looked more like Loretta Scott and her family than I did any member of my own family, until Janie came along that is. Loretta could actually be my lost twin or a sister, except she’s a half a head taller than I am and is always sporting the latest hairdo.

Not only do Loretta and I look alike, we share many common interests. But unlike me, she has a degree in Botany, a minor in business, and a singular focus on her career. Right out of college, she was hired to work in the collections division of the New York Botanical Gardens. She’s been there ever since, working her way up to become the director of the whole show.

I, on the other hand, studied horticulture, theater, literature, dance, art, nutrition, history, sociology, and a myriad of other subjects, which added up to my liberal arts degree. Not because I wasn’t interested in anything, but because I was interested in everything, and I couldn’t seem to find one path and stick to it.

When Loretta called, I apologized profusely for not letting her know that Race had left me. She was pretty ticked and insisted on flying in. I begged her not to. She didn’t understand and was on the next plane.

I was watching out the window when she drove her rental car into Race’s spot in the driveway.

“Stellar dumped wife, I am the stellar dumped wife,” I repeated the mantra.

When Loretta knocked, I swung the door open and greeted her with enthusiasm, “Hi, Lo, how are you?” I was all smiles, for about seven seconds.

Loretta’s face was red and puffy. She’d been crying. It was my marriage, my life crumbling. Couldn’t she keep it together?

“Cammy, how are you?” she asked and then bawled.

“Better than you at the moment.”

She collapsed into my arms. “I just can’t believe it. Not you and Race. There’s no hope for the institution. Not if you and Race can’t make it.”

“Your two divorces left you with hope for the institution?”

“I married jerks. Race isn’t a jerk. Well, maybe he is. Of course he is. He wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t.”

We stood in the open doorway, embracing, crying until I saw a little pod of neighborhood kids gathered on the sidewalk to watch the show. I kicked the door shut with my foot, took Loretta’s arm in mine, and said, “Let’s cook.”

“Cooking is therapy.” I think Julia Child said that or maybe it was Mario Batali. I guided Loretta to a stool at the kitchen counter, gathered ingredients, took out pans, chopped, and mixed.

“What are we having?” Loretta asked between sniffles and suspicious examination of the store-brand label on the chickpeas I was opening. Loretta had never bought an off-brand product in her life. I shopped second-hand clothes, bargain basements, and yard sales, even when I didn’t have to. I loved the challenge.

“Well.” I raised my eyebrows. “I’m on the Rivers plan.”

“Not that kooky singer who lost sixty pounds and is afraid of a candy bar?”

“Yes, that kooky singer who lost sixty pounds and is not afraid of anything. She’s brave.”

“I thought the last time you went on that diet, you said it wasn’t realistic.”

“It’s not a diet, it’s a life plan, and it wasn’t realistic when I was cooking for Race and the kids. Now it’s just me.”

Loretta’s face twisted with the onset of another cry.

“You know what I mean. I’m cooking for myself now. It’s been easy. The food’s great, and I feel great. How do I look?” I spun around, trying to evoke some kind of lightheartedness from the dark cloud that had flown over two thousand miles to comfort me.