The Watcher

52

I’m standing outside the police station. Soon I’ll go inside and ask to speak to the officer on duty or whoever can take my account of what happened that afternoon at Anna’s house. Then the question of my potential guilt can finally be resolved. Regardless of what happens, regardless of the outcome, I won’t regret it. This is the only way forward, the only way for me to be able to live with myself in the future. I cast a quick glance up at the sky. You would have come with me, I know.

There’s only one thing that remains to be done before I walk up the stairs to the front door. I pull out my phone and call a very familiar number. An instant later, he’s there again, right up against my ear. My husband, my beloved.

“I’ve been thinking,” I say, “about that stuff about getting together, you and me.”

I don’t get any further than that before Peter gives a yell. Eagerly he wonders if my call means that I’m done with whatever needed finishing up. I say yes.

“You can come home, you know, Elena. Any night at all works. I’ll make us dinner—lamb and au gratin potatoes, your favorite.”

He sounds so happy, and of course that makes everything much more difficult. At the same time, I can’t help but wonder if I’m really the one he’s been missing. Or if it’s mostly the loneliness that makes him want us to get back together. I’ll never know, and I suppose it doesn’t matter.

I clear my throat.

“The reason I’m calling is to say that… well, that it’s not a good idea for us to see each other.”

At first he’s confused. He thought that… he thought it sounded like… Then he pulls himself together and changes tack. If I need more time, that’s totally fine. He’s prepared to wait however long it takes if I’ll only—

“No,” I say. “You don’t need to do that. I don’t want you to do that.”

Peter sounds even more flummoxed. I close my eyes, needing to get this over with as quickly as possible. Dragging this out just makes it more painful.

“This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my whole life, but I’m planning to file for divorce.”

At first there’s complete silence on the other end of the line. Then Peter finds his voice again.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry for what I put you through, for betraying you and cheating on you. I don’t think I said that clearly enough at the time, and I… well, I should have said it a long time ago.”

I open my eyes again. It’s as if I had been waiting to hear him say those words. At one time, it had burned inside me to demand them of him. Just as I’d wanted to demand them of Thomas fifteen years ago. My throat feels tight.

“Peter, I—”

“It was never about her,” he continues quickly, “but rather about what happened between us, between you and me. Or, actually, I suppose it was mostly about me. That I didn’t know how to handle what you told me. But now… I know that I can…”

He keeps talking, says things that lead my thoughts to a future I had previously hoped for and believed was possible. Now I know better, but it doesn’t stop it from hurting inside. If only everything had been different.

“Peter,” I interrupt softly. “I’ve made up my mind. There’s no other way forward from here. I realize that now. I’m sorry.”

I hear him breathing on the other end of the line, and there’s so much more I want to say, so much I could say. I squeeze my hand around my phone and press my lips together. Be strong. You need to be strong.

“But why?” he wonders. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

I take a deep breath. How can I explain? Where should I start?

“Lamb and au gratin potatoes was never my favorite meal, I think. It was yours. But since you were so fond of it, it had to become my favorite meal, too. Your love, our life together, meant everything to me. I had never had a successful relationship before, had never met anyone I loved so ardently and unconditionally, so I was desperately keen on making it work with you. I didn’t know how to do that, just knew that more than anything else I wanted us to be compatible. I wanted you to feel that we were.

“So I made lamb and au gratin potatoes for you on special occasions and sometimes just on ordinary days, as well. I made it that night when you’d agreed to sit down and eat together and really talk. That night when I got dressed up and used the best china, when I hoped that we would find our way back to each other after the distance that had grown since I revealed my secret to you. That was the night you told me about Anna.

“I had brought home flowers. Perhaps you remember the bouquet that was on the kitchen table, or maybe you don’t. When my tears and your attempts to comfort me ended, we went to bed and fell asleep from exhaustion. That’s what you think, right? You don’t know that I lay awake tossing and turning, that I finally got up and wandered around the apartment, hounded by something wild inside me. The flowers were still sitting in the vase in the kitchen, and when I saw them, something came over me, something I couldn’t explain. Or didn’t want to explain. That’s when I got out the scissors.

“My scream didn’t wake you up. At least, you didn’t get up to see what was going on. And I didn’t leave any traces. The only difference the next morning was that the flowers were gone. You never commented, so I assume you didn’t notice they were gone. Maybe, as I said, you hadn’t noticed they were there, either. Maybe you only noticed half of my efforts for that dinner, that night. Maybe it was like that the whole time we were together.”

“Really? Have you stopped loving me, Elena?”

No, I could say, I haven’t—not yet—not by a long shot. I bite my lip and can’t help but think of the voicemail he left me the other day. I love you, always have, always will. But words are one thing, and actions are another. I wait until I’m sure that I can keep my voice steady.

“Thanks,” I say then. “Even though it ended badly, I want to thank you for these years, for showing me the joy of being close to another person. I will take that with me, the knowledge that it’s possible, that it’s worth it.”

The words sound overbearing, but that can’t be helped. They need to be said. I need to say them.

“So this is really over, Elena? Do you mean that?”

This won’t be the last time we talk to each other, I realize. We’re going to need to deal with all the practical matters—sign the paperwork and divvy up our things. But we’ll say goodbye now. I feel that clearly, here and now.

“Goodbye, Peter. Promise you’ll take care of yourself.”

We hang up, and I almost succeed in holding back my tears. When I look up the staircase at the police station’s front door, both the view and my vision are foggy. But my resolve doesn’t waver when it comes to this, either. Slowly I begin to walk up there, one step at a time.