Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [137]
He looks at me, struggling for words. “I think . . . I think . . . I was looking for something I thought I needed.”
“And what was that? What was it that you weren’t getting here? From me?” I ask as I begin to answer the question for myself. I refuse to accept any blame for his infidelity, and yet I can’t deny that things have changed between us. That I’ve changed. And that, in many ways, I’m not the person he married. I think of Nick’s recent accusations, as well as my mother’s observations. That I am never happy; that I have lost some of my passion; that I focus on things that don’t matter, rather than our relationship, the bedrock of everything else. “What did she give you?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that . . . It was more . . .” He glances up at the ceiling, searching for words, then looks at me and says, “the way I felt when I was around her reminded me of the way I felt for you in the beginning.”
My heart breaks hearing the two of us compared, yet there is comfort in his honesty, in the pain on his face, how much he also wishes it weren’t true.
He continues, “And there were other things, too . . . I felt . . . I felt this need to fix things for that little boy—a need that got convoluted and somehow extended to his mother . . . Part of it was probably my ego . . . wanting that feeling—that feeling of being young . . . of being needed and wanted.” His voice trails off, as I remember how vulnerable I was on the subway the day we met.
“I needed you. I wanted you,” I say, using the past tense, even though a big part of me still needs him, still wants him. “But maybe you’re no longer . . . attracted to me?”
I look at him, knowing that he will deny this accusation, but hoping he can do so convincingly.
“No,” he says, letting one clenched fist fall to the table. “That’s not it. It’s not about sex. Except for maybe the feeling of being connected that sex can give you . . . It’s just. . . It’s not that simple, Tess . . . It’s no one thing you can point to.”
I nod, thinking of how difficult marriage can be, how much effort is required to sustain a feeling between two people—a feeling that you can’t imagine will ever fade in the beginning when everything comes so easily. I think of how each person in a marriage owes it to the other to find individual happiness, even in a shared life. That this is the only real way to grow together, instead of apart.
He continues, as if reading my mind. “Life can be tough. And monotonous . .. and exhausting. And it’s not the romantic ride you think it’s going to be when you start out, in the beginning . .. But that doesn’t mean .. . that doesn’t give anyone the right... It didn’t give me the right to do what I did . .. Look, Tess. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a good one. And lately, I think there was no reason at all. Which might be worse. But it’s the truth. And it’s all I have to give you.”
I swallow and nod. Then, despite my determination not to make this conversation about her, I ask whether he’s spoken to her since the day he came home from his walk in the Common.
“No,” he says.
“So you’re not his doctor anymore?” I ask, avoiding Charlie’s name, right along with his mother’s.
“No.”
“And you’re not going to be in his life?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Does that make you sad?”
He sighs, then grimaces. “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t sad . . . that I don’t miss that little boy and feel tremendous guilt for being part of his life and then abruptly leaving. I feel guilty for any pain I could have caused a child. For breaking the first rule of medicine.”
Do no harm, I think, and then consider all the harm he did.
He continues, “But I feel more guilty about you. I can’t really think beyond you . . . us. My kids. Our family. Most of the time, I can’t think at all. I’m just feeling and remembering and wishing.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, something inside me softening. “What are you feeling and remembering and wishing?”
“I’m feeling . . . the way I felt when I met you on the subway. You were standing