The Watcher

21

She isn’t opening the curtains to let in the morning light the way she usually does. She doesn’t get up at all. I say her name, but she doesn’t answer. When I get out of our bed, she stays put. I do what I need to in the bathroom, then get dressed and go have breakfast. When I return to our bedroom, my wife hasn’t moved an inch. She’s still lying in exactly the same position with her legs pulled up, huddled with her back toward me.

I say her name from the doorway, but she doesn’t respond. I walk closer and say it again. Then I walk right up to her and put my hand on her shoulder, shake her gently and then a little less gently. But she doesn’t move. I note that she’s breathing, and I see her eyes jerking around inside her closed eyelids, so I know that she’s alive. Alive? To think that word even pops into my consciousness. Of course she’s alive!

I take a step back, thinking back to our conversation at the dinner table, to my confession. Could I have done something differently? Is there a right way, a considerate way, to tell your wife you’re seeing another woman? That you’re confused and don’t know what you want?

In the end, I have to go. Work is waiting. I set out a glass of water for her and squeeze her upper arm under the covers, then I leave her there in the dark. I feel guilt and self-reproach—and relief that I finally told the truth, that I’m not living a lie anymore. But also—maybe most of all—it hurts me to see my wife like this. Yet after all is said and done, tears and apathy are better than the alternative. I think of the scar on her stomach and shudder.

I discovered it the first time we were naked together, but it took a couple of weeks before I asked her about it. She reeled off a story about an accident when she was a kid, something about a barbed-wire fence, and that was the end of it. Maybe I should have smelled a rat even then, asked more questions and scrutinized her face as she explained. But I was in love and saw only what she wanted me to see. I used to kiss that scar when we were in bed together, and now, after the fact, I remember that she always pushed my head away on those occasions. Later on she told me the truth, and now I’ll never be able to look at that scar the same way.

When I return home, no one comes to greet me. The lights are off in the front hallway and in the kitchen. My wife is still lying in bed, in the same place and the same position as this morning. The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark and stuffy. I try talking to her, asking her how she’s doing and if there’s anything I can do, but she’s unresponsive.

I neither want to nor dare to intrude. I have no other choice than to be understanding and give her a little time. But at the same time… she can’t stay in this state for however long she wants. Two or three days max, I think. Then I’ll need to do something, bring in outside help. When it’s time for bed, I get ready, fold back the covers, and lie down on my side of the mattress. It’s an odd sensation, sharing a bed and yet not, being as close as two people can be and at the same time separated by a chasm.

Of course I could sleep by myself in a different room or on the sofa. Isn’t that what people do in situations like this? But, no. If there is a template for how spouses should behave when one of them has cheated on the other, it doesn’t apply to us. In our case there is no comfort or guidance to be drawn from other people’s experiences, no conventional pattern. We’re not like other people.

I hear her even breathing and wonder what she’s thinking. I realize that I have no idea, that maybe I never had any. I fold my arms under my head and stare at the ceiling. No, we’re not like other people, but that is not because of me. We’re different because my wife is different.