By the time I reached Edward's brick apartment building, I was soaked through. It was fine with me. Looking pathetic and cold would only help my cause. I checked the doors but felt no surprise that they were locked for the night. The keypad glowed against the brick wall. I reached for the numbers, but paused with the tip of my index finger only centimeters away from the six. I looked at my watch. It was almost twenty past nine.
Edward was sure to be in bed.
All the better, right? An argument always goes better when
the accused is woken out of a dead sleep.
Jodie taunted me, but I tried to ignore her. I wasn't here to stir up trouble. I just wanted an explanation. His complete and total absence from the day was a sure sign that things were not as they should be in our relationship. After all, we were a very tidy couple, always tying up loose ends. Edward was the most thorough of the two of us. The Battle of Hastings wasn't as well planned as the one and only road trip we took together a year ago. Edward had brought enough food for six days in case “something happened.”
I pushed the six. Then the three. Then the four. The electronic sound of the phone ringing made my heart pound against my chest. After the fourth ring, I almost decided to stop the call. I could sneak away, and he would never have to know it was me. But right as I reached for the End Call button, Edward's voice crackled through the speaker.
“Hello? Who is this?” he said groggily.
I swallowed. It wasn't too late to run. But hadn't I suffered enough humiliation for one night? Edward was the cause of all of it. He should at least have to answer for it.
“Hello?” His voice had an edge to it now.
“It's me,” I said.
“Who?”
“
Me.
Leah.” I threw the wet hair out of my eyes.
I could hear him breathing. Or maybe that was me. Somebody was breathing hard.
“Hello?” I said, moving my lips closer to the speaker box.
“I heard you. It's after nine.”
“I know that.”
“What's the matter?”
“It's raining out here. I'm freezing. Can you unlock the door?”
“Hold on.”
I heard the door click. I opened it and approached the creaky excuse for an elevator. A well-dressed couple got off as the doors split. I avoided eye contact and hurried in, jamming my thumb into the Close Door button. Six floors up, the doors opened again and I walked to Edward's apartment. I'd expected him to be waiting for me at his door, but it was closed and quiet.
I knocked.
Shuffling feet could be heard, then the two clicks of both his deadbolts. He opened the door. Behind him his apartment was dark, and he squinted at the hallway lights. After the shock of the glare, he looked at me like he'd just discovered the Loch Ness Monster.
“Are you okay?” he asked, but I didn't detect much sympathy in his voice.
“I could use a towel.” I walked past him into his apartment and went to the bathroom. I grabbed a clean towel, neatly folded in the cabinet, and squeezed it around my hair. After I blotted my face dry, I found Edward in the living room, a single lamp clicked on. He was sitting down, watching me.
“What's going on?” he asked.
“I'm here to ask you that same question.” I tried to make my voice bold, but it quivered. I chalked it up to being cold.
“Leah, I'm not following, and frankly, it's late and I need the sleep.”
Late? That's hilarious. It's nine. Maybe you should offer to
warm some milk for him.
“You have no clue why I'm here?” I asked.
He blinked. He really looked confused, but I tried not to let that distract me.
“You stood me up tonight.”
He blinked again. A worried expression flickered across his features.
I threw up my hands. “For therapy.”
“Therapy? What therapy?”
“The therapy you suggested we go to?” My voice was climbing like I might attempt a high-range opera song. And admittedly, I did end the sentence with a question in my voice, so Edward looked unsure whether he was supposed to answer or listen. I rolled my eyes.
“The conflict resolution class,” I finally said.
“That?” He opened his hands.
“Yes.” Of course that! What do you mean,
that
? “Why didn't you come?”
Edward stood, his hands sliding down the front of his purple silk pajamas. “That was for you, not me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wanted you to attend.”
“Not the both of us?” The soprano in me was preparing for the finale.
“I thought it might do you some good and therefore benefit both of us.”
“Me? Why me?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Leah, the thing is, you don't handle conflict very well.”
“What does that mean?”
“It's just an observation I've made throughout our relationship. And this weekend was a perfect example. At the party, you were practically hiding in the garden!”
“I was
strolling.
”
“I just thought the class might help you. I saw it advertised in the paper.”
“You don't even know what this class is!” Edward took a step back. I was a little stunned myself. “It's for criminals!”
“That's not what the coupon said.”
“They send everyone over to this class when the anger management class is full!” I willed myself to calm down or face the prospect of another coupon.
“I called about it, Leah. She said nothing about criminals. The lady was very nice. She just said that it helps people learn to deal with conflict the right way.” Edward spoke like we were discussing a dinner menu. Why was he so calm?
“You never intended on coming?”
“I didn't realize I gave that impression.”
“This is humiliating.”
He gently took my shoulders into his hands. “Leah, this was just meant to help you. That's all.”
“I called you at six and you weren't home. Where were you?”
“I stopped to help an old lady who was in a car accident.”
I turned and tried to catch my breath. Was he telling the truth? Little old lady stories are about as easy to concoct as organ transplant stories.
“I didn't think it would be this big of a deal,” Edward finally said, exhaustion in his voice. “I didn't mean to hurt you. Did you get the flowers?”
I turned and watched him lower himself back onto his couch. He seemed sincere. And he really did look tired. His bloodshot eyes glowed against his shadowy face. Surely this could've waited until morning.
“I've got a big presentation tomorrow,” he said, punctuated by a large yawn.
“I'm sorry,” I replied, shaking my wet head. I folded the towel and went to drape it across the tub in the bathroom. When I came back, Edward was standing again, facing the hallway to his bedroom as if counting down the seconds to when he could crawl back into bed. I was feeling tired too.
“Look, if the class is that horrible, don't go. It doesn't matter, okay?” He took a step down the hallway.
I nodded and walked to the door.
“I'll call you tomorrow,” he said, his voice distant as he turned into his bedroom.
The elevator dinged open as soon as I punched the button, and the descending ride embodied the spiral down which I felt myself sliding. Stiffening my lower eyelids to hold in the tears, I dragged myself three blocks to my car, not caring that I was already too wet to worry that I was being drenched.
It was a hard thing to shake. Edward thought I needed help with conflict. This was just another sign that this relationship was not what it should be.
It was nearly ten by the time I got to my apartment building. Puddles of water trailed behind me in the hallway. I pulled off one sock and tried to wipe them up as I walked to the elevator. I didn't need to be responsible for someone falling and breaking their neck tonight. Though that would be how I would expect this day to end.
Thankful for the carpeting in the elevator, I went quickly to my apartment and turned the key to unlock the door, except the bolt didn't click. The door was already unlocked. I pulled my key out, trying to remember whether I'd locked it before leaving for the class. I couldn't deny I'd been flustered.
My thoughts suddenly turned to every serial-killer movie I'd ever seen. But then I laughed at myself. Was this what Edward was talking about? Did I overreact to simple things like my door being unlocked?
Gripping the key in my hand, I pretended to continue to laugh and turned the knob. I left in a tizzy. Of course, I'd forgotten to lock the door. Naturally. I shoved the door inward and stared at my dark apartment, a smile pasted on as I eyed the dark, shadowy corners of the room.
I started in, making haste toward the lamp at the end of the couch. A little light would quickly diffuse this situation. But when I got halfway there, a dark figure emerged suddenly from the hallway.
I screamed. And screamed again. My body wiggled with the electrocution of sheer terror. Then I realized something astonishing. I wasn't the one screaming. With my mouth open but with no sound coming out, I stared through the darkness and realized the person hopping up and down in the hallway looked remarkably like Elisabeth.
She finally stopped screaming. I switched on the light by the couch. “Elisabeth! What are you doing?”
Grasping her T-shirt at chest level, she managed to say, “You scared me to death!”
“How did I do that? You're sneaking around my apartment in the dark!”
Her nostrils flared. “I'm not
sneaking.
I just got here, and I was using the bathroom. I do have a key, if you remember.”
I glanced down the hallway and saw a small slice of light glowing from the bathroom. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I called twice, and you didn't answer.”
“Did it occur to you I might be out?”
“You're never out on Tuesdays, especially after nine.”
Her words stung. Was I that predictable?
“I was worried,” she added, but not convincingly. “Looks like I should've been. Heard of an umbrella?”
I sighed. “I need to go change.” I walked past her and into my bedroom, where I dried off, wrapped my hair in a towel, and changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. In the kitchen, Elisabeth was fixing us both tea, which meant only one thing. She needed to talk.
I didn't feel like listening to her problems. Not tonight. I had enough to deal with. I noticed she was fixing chai. This was not a good sign. It didn't just mean conversation. It meant a heavy conversation. I walked straight to the living room and sat down.
After a few minutes, she joined me. “Here you go.” She smiled, handing me a large mug.
“Elisabeth,” I started. All I wanted to do was fall into bed and cry myself into a deep sleep. She turned, waiting for me to finish.
“What is it?”
I could see trouble in her eyes. “Need more sugar.”
She plopped another cube into my mug, then made herself comfortable on the couch.
I switched on the lamp, my body aching with the weight of so much worry. Elisabeth didn't notice. She was now furiously stirring her tea and looked like she was about to cry.
I sat down next to her, and as soon as I put my arm around her shoulder, she burst into tears. I held her, my heart aching for her unknown sorrow. I'd never seen her this upset in all our years of friendship.
Soon enough, though, she calmed down and I went in search of tissues. When I returned, she set her cup down and said, “I've decided to have an affair.”
[Fumbling her words, she becomes silent.]
R
ain was coming down again, the damp environment a constant reminder of the new low I found myself in. I drove cautiously, both hands gripping the steering wheel, my bloodshot eyes stinging and scared to blink for fear it would turn into a short snooze at the wheel.
I'd spent yesterday deleting scene after scene from my play, punching the Delete key in rapid succession to try to get that same feeling I used to have when I actually ripped up pieces of paper. It wasn't quite the same. But close. Especially when my Delete key jammed up.
But in reality, it wasn't my play that was frustrating me. In fact I'd made some progress today, though the idea that I had in my possession some sort of prophetic talents still made me shiver. No, my mind was plagued by my friend Elisabeth's dilemma.
Was it really a dilemma?
Somehow it had turned into a dilemma, and somehow I had let her walk out the door of my home remaining confident that this was what she had to do.
“This” was named Creyton, described by Elisabeth as the ideal man she'd written about in her diary when she was twenty.
“He's everything I've ever wanted in a man,” she'd told me, without the slightest hint of embarrassment at her cliché or conviction at her more-than-obvious moral quagmire. She explained that Creyton was her neighbor, but what she didn't explain was why an out-of-work mechanic with two grown children was on her list of wants in her twenties.
I'd posed the question of how a mechanic could possibly be out of work since there seemed to be an unending supply of broken mechanical things, but Elisabeth brushed past it and began a long and detailed oratory in which she corrected my apparent misconception that she had a happy life.
I learned during our two hours over chai that motherhood was taking its toll, and with her husband Henry's travel schedule, Elisabeth was feeling lonely and burdened. I listened intently. My friend was clearly in an emotional and mental crisis, and frankly it made all my problems seem small.
“Have you talked with Henry about your feelings?” I asked as she rose for more tea.
“How can I talk to Henry? Henry is the problem.”
“But maybe he doesn't know he's the problem.”
“Are you saying maybe I'm the problem?”