The Watcher

15

Maladaptive stress reaction.

That’s the diagnosis my wife received in connection with what happened to her when she was young. She must have explained to me what it meant, but I remember very little from that part of the conversation. There was so much else that demanded attention, so much to absorb all at once. As far as the medical condition was concerned, I actually only managed to grasp that it consisted of a disproportionately strong reaction—in terms of emotions and behavior—to a specific event.

Finally eight or nine months ago, my wife revealed the whole thing to me, describing her reaction and her actions at that time. She was finally ready to confide in me, she said. She didn’t cry as she talked. Her voice was calm and contrasted sharply to the violence contained in her words. I wish I could say that I handled it well. I wish that I could say that what she told me hadn’t affected my view of her.

We were lying in bed, and I felt the nausea rising in me. I patted her clumsily on the head and then excused myself, saying that I must have eaten something that wasn’t sitting well. I said that she shouldn’t move from that spot, that I would be right back and would hold her again. Then I raced to the bathroom and threw up. My legs were shaking, and I couldn’t stand up. Every time I tried, I was overcome by dizziness. When I eventually returned to the bedroom, she was lying still, with her eyes closed and her tangled hair spread over the pillow. She had fallen asleep. I’m ashamed to say this, but I was relieved. It meant I wouldn’t need to say anything more to her that night. I wouldn’t need to collect myself and make assurances and comfort her. I couldn’t have pulled that off.

During the weeks and months that followed, she proceeded as if nothing had changed, as if she were the same, as if I were expected to think and believe that. Instead it felt like she had slipped out of my hands or that I had drifted away and was seeing her through new eyes, from a distance. I grew increasingly unsure of who she actually was. Had I ever known?

She had her plans—the plans that had recently been ours together—and she talked about the future more than ever. Every time she did, the ground shook beneath my feet. It wasn’t just her that I was unsure of. Who was I, I who had married someone I knew so little about? How could I trust my own judgment again after having so seriously misjudged someone I loved?

Loved? Love?

I don’t know, I wanted to scream. I don’t know. I don’t know. What I had taken for granted was gone. There was no longer any fixed point to rely on. I was tossed around, back and forth, and had nothing to hold on to. Nothing and no one. Until Anna captivated me.

Anna. I know what I’m doing with her is wrong. The secret conversations and messages, the clandestine meetings. The trips that are getting longer and longer and more frequent and that are no longer business trips but something else—a flight from home, a chance to meet Anna in a strange city and spend time outside the closed rooms we are usually obliged to remain in.

From the beginning, those moments with Anna gave me space to breathe, a way out of what was squeezing my rib cage and screaming in my ears, but now… It can’t continue like this. I owe us all the truth. I’ve decided. I’m going to tell my wife about my confusion and my doubt. I’ll be honest about how I’ve been feeling since her revelation, and I’ll tell her about Anna. There quite simply isn’t any other alternative. It’s make or break.

Tonight.

My heart is pounding, pounding and throbbing. Tonight’s the night.