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  Time lessened lingering concerns regarding the feeling that the other shoe would drop. I became convinced that he was indeed “in it for life,” as he insisted. I was certain that this love, this marriage, this relationship would end only with death.

  Neither he nor I was perfect. However, our relationship was very close and grew increasingly secure with each passing day. Our conversations centered on a growing love and commitment, and those conversations far outnumbered any that mentioned concerns. Outsiders, as well as close friends and family, saw a couple that worked. We were comfortable and carefree with each other, an easy fit. His departure shocked all but the most perceptive and raised doubts and confusion in others when they learned he had walked away. Therapists, my attorney, and one friend unsurprisingly and objectively assessed the circumstances. Most, and mostly I myself, were horrified and felt betrayed by the collapse of a marriage as seemingly strong as ours.

  Reflecting on the life we had shared, I realized that we had not shared a life at all. He had absorbed my life into his. He had eagerly incorporated my traditions and celebrations. He had greedily stepped into the world I had created—including my daughters and my friends—until he was ready to move on. Had we only been playing at a relationship? Were the vacations, weekends, dates, conversations, and fun only an illusion? We had done so much and had such a variety of experiences. We had shared family gatherings, concerts, plays, travel, movies, weddings, and births. We had hosted dinner parties and barbecues. We had taken cooking lessons. Yet, outside the bedroom, I saw his smile only at the birth of his two grandsons and on other rare, isolated occasions. He would never applaud at entertainment venues, never stand for an ovation. Were those red flags? Perhaps the communication on which we prided ourselves had never really been honest. Perhaps he just couldn’t be happy.

  Perhaps he had taken all that he needed. I was reminded of a time in my childhood when I had been playing at a nearby creek with my neighborhood friends. A leech had attached itself to my thigh and refused to release me from its grasp. I watched as it increased in size and strength, sucking the blood from my limb, until it was successfully removed and I was free. Like the leech, my husband had attached himself to me and determinedly succeeded in sucking the life from me.

  I had been certain he had discovered in me a new wife, one whom he found a little smarter, a little prettier, a little more adventurous—both in and out of the bedroom—and with a little more drive and backbone than the first. Perhaps he had been relying on my strength to maintain his personal and professional growth and was worn down over time as he realized he had none of his own. Perhaps I had come to enjoy being needed, when what I really needed was to be me. Perhaps I didn’t realize I had been losing myself until I began to once again explore social opportunities and to discover how lost I had become. Perhaps it is human nature that even when there are concerns, we see what we want to see and close our eyes to the rest.

  I realized, with a new emotional strength and increased perspective, I may have missed some obvious indicators of the disaster and pain. One was likely during the ride to the hotel with my girls on the day of our wedding. It had been difficult to drive, as I had struggled to avoid hyperventilation. Suddenly questioning the sanity of the situation, I had been filled with only trepidation, which, at the time, I had overlooked. Perhaps the fact that when we entered the room for the ceremony, where he and his children were already gathered, Jim had a glass of wine in his hand and had already begun drinking. Was that a sign? At the time, I thought it only nerves. Had it been something else? Had he been having second thoughts? Had he been fearful of giving marriage another chance? Was he already questioning his decision to pursue and conquer me?

  I have learned to recognize that his behavior was inconsistent with his feelings and I was merely a part of his plan. I was one of many. I have come to believe I was merely a stepping-stone along his path of taking what he needed from a relationship and then moving on. Yet, at the time, I never saw it coming. I never had a clue it would end the way it did. I had heard for years his repeated refrains of undying love. He assured me each day of his passion for and commitment to our marriage. He expressed wishes that I might understand and experience, if only briefly, the depth of what he felt for me. He reminded me frequently that, despite the passage of so many years, I continued to take his breath away. I often wondered if this was all exaggeration, but I never questioned the underlying truth of his words. After all, I still believed that I was a better person because he was in my life.

  I still felt blindsided and confused about how the man I thought I knew so well could have betrayed me. If he had deemed his first wife stupid and described me as mean, what would be his criticism of the next? I was certain of only two things: he would take no responsibility for the termination of our marriage, and what I had thought we had was not love. He knew I had difficulty detecting manipulation, as it was not a tactic I used in my relationships. He played on my emotional vulnerability about marriage and offered all the right words. He knew full well that I would internalize responsibility for the collapse of our union and accept the shame and the guilt he would heap upon me when he was ready to leave.

  He introduced a new phrase as he walked out the door: “It is what it is.” While I remained uncertain about its actual meaning, it came to clearly identify my new life. Reflections on the time, the circumstances, the miscues, the responsibility, and the fault provided no understanding. “It is what it is.” There was no going back. If granted a do-over, would I take it? I would not. After four long years with absolutely no communication, I had finally come to realize he undoubtedly had never been committed to our relationship. I was better off alone. If he had truly been unhappy and had clearly stated his issues, I would, of course, have worked toward a stronger and improved marriage and the resolution of his concerns. But even if he had voiced legitimate worries and responsibly worked toward resolution within the marriage, could I have been any better off than I am at this moment?

  When one has lost everything, everything must be reevaluated. It is said that hindsight is twenty-twenty. Would I have made different choices? If we had never moved and stayed where we were, I would have remained secure in my job, my home, and my friends. My daughters would have been nearby. He would still have left, but in that scenario, with a safety net in place, would my pain have been as deep? Would my experiences have been as sharp? Would my gain have been so monumental? Would I even have had the time to experience and process the loss I was experiencing and what was happening in my life? Would I have had the opportunity to learn as much, grow as much, and develop as completely as I have? I have become confident in my surroundings. I have stepped out of my comfort zone. I have experienced no more anxiety attacks. My path remains somewhat unclear, but of one thing I remain certain: I will continue to move ahead. I had been content without a shared life before he proclaimed his “infinite patience” and “lifelong love” for me. I would be content on my own once again. I would find my way, and I, like my tulips, would continue to grow and thrive.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Who Are You, and What Are You Thinking?

  “Never give up, for that is just the place and time the tide will turn.”

  —HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

  ABOUT THE TIME HE LEFT, I HAD A NEIGHBOR who posted something on Facebook to this effect: “When a door closes, stop trying to beat it down and accept that you are not meant to have what is behind it.”

  I had certainly been pounding on that door. I wanted what had been taken returned to me. I had internalized responsibility for every bit of the guilt and blame he piled upon me. I used any lucid moments I experienced to try to reach out, to make sense, to formulate plans, and to compile options. My efforts to communicate went mostly unheeded. Calls made to his office went directly to his secretary. When he did answer, I suggested, “Let’s find a time when we can talk and clear this up. Avoiding each other just allows us to stew in our own juices. We can figure this out.”

&n
bsp; He responded, “I’m happy stewing in my juices. I’ve found a therapist, and she told me people like you are unable to love.”

  That seemed like an unusual and unwarranted statement. My therapist had never conveyed hostility toward or generalizations about him. Her only goal was to assist me in working through my grief. A friend who had closely observed my journey through my first divorce had asked me, “Why aren’t you angry?”

  I explained, “Anger only hurts me. He doesn’t care if I’m angry, and I gain nothing from allowing it into my life.”

  She suggested, “If you won’t be angry, then you must determine what it is you are to learn from this.”

  I was trying to do just that. I filled every waking moment with the sound bite of the words he had said—the accusations of cruelty, and his insistence that he had told me repeatedly about how he had felt. How had I never heard any of these dialogues he insisted took place? I could clearly recall the persistent, hissing voice that told me I was vile and undeserving of conversation, and that our marriage was over, and it left me completely distraught. When I wasn’t replaying his voice and his words in my head, I was still attempting to call, to beg, to apologize, to explain. Often, I was writing, but always I was absorbing blame, always hoping that the life we had shared could be salvaged.

  I knew that marriages crumble and that love ends, but not in a weekend. I understood that there were endless scenarios involving the loss of a loved one: random accidents, lingering illness, suicide, a heart attack. I felt certain the most painful was the unexpected, especially the abandonment. He told me that I was mean and filed court papers saying that and more. He stopped just short of using vulgar language to describe my evil behavior and my full responsibility in causing the end of our marriage. The document was so scathing and unexpected that my attorney contacted me immediately before forwarding the document on to me. In an effort to deflect the impact and to soften the blow, she reminded me, “Keep in mind who sent it.” She needn’t have worried. The file was so ridiculous in its presentation and tone, even I could not take it seriously. Still, she then contacted his attorney and told him, “Under no circumstances will my client meet face-to-face with your client.” Continuing on, she reprimanded him: “Shame on you! That was unfounded, unnecessary, and unprofessional.”

  The response was quick: “We do not have anything else. We have no grounds for this divorce, no motives on which to file.” His reasons did not matter. Our marriage was over, the betrayal unexpected, the wound deep. The handling was needlessly hurtful and left a permanent scar. I often wondered just what he said to people. How did he face himself in the mirror each morning? What was his justification?

  “Mean”? What a childish and intangible word. I had heard more expressive accusations from the first-graders I had taught. Even if it had been true, which I knew with certainty it was not, did I deserve to be treated so despicably? I had worked hard to blend our families, to provide a welcoming home for all. I had been selfless in my love. I had retired and relocated. I had sold my home only months before. Did I—did anyone—deserve such disrespect and unconcealed loathing and animosity? Did I deserve to be left to clean up the detritus of the life he had left behind? Surely, a woman who was mean would have simply trashed his belongings, rather than storing them until it was convenient for him to pick them up.

  After he left, I had ordered and read Gary Chapman’s book The Five Love Languages. It has been studied and documented that men will not leave a relationship without having established a new one into which to move. Even a cursory Google search indicates that men have a backup plan in place before moving on. As I look back, I realize that is just what he did with me when he was leaving his first wife, although I never felt that way at the time. I was certain it was our proximity, a shared commonality with our children, and the unraveling of his marriage that brought us together, but perhaps I was just a safe and convenient place to land. My attorney had encouraged the hiring of a private investigator, but I had declined. What good could come of it? A quicker divorce? What change could it make? He would never have forgiven such an act, and at the time I received the suggestion, I held out hope for a reconciliation. As my daughter told me early on, “If he has opted out, there is nothing you can do to opt him back in.” Divorce is difficult. Loss is painful and lonely. I knew this from the first time I divorced. I knew what to expect, and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. It turned out I knew nothing at all.

  Weeks turned into months without contact or communication. He continued to pay bills electronically, and I continued to use our debit card to provide for myself. His mail continued to arrive at our shared address, until I suggested, via email, our only communication, that he change his mailing address. Also via email, an offer from him arrived after the receipt of disclosure documents from our attorneys. While sitting at a favorite local eatery with a friend one day, I received word that he suddenly wanted to talk. He insisted that we could work through a settlement without the aid of lawyers and assured me that he had a plan in place. He offered to meet and buy my lunch. I reminded him that we had not communicated in months and that attorneys were already in place, and I declined. He shared his plan with me nevertheless.

  He assured me that his pension plan had nothing available and that his 401(k) portfolio was nominal at best after the 2008 recession. He offered to provide me with $600 per month spousal support until I was sixty-two (fourteen months away). He suggested I could then collect my Social Security benefit. He assigned a generous $8,400 value to my contributions to our marriage and his success. Six hundred dollars per month, or even the $840 per month reduced Social Security benefit, would not cover food and utilities, not to mention mortgage or rental payments. I had no job and no income to supplement such an outlandish and demeaning offer, even if I had been foolish enough to give it consideration. I had retired to relocate and to support him. While he may have been planning this break for some time, the situation was new to me. I needed time. Unbeknownst to him, I knew the exact balance of his 401(k) portfolio, and it was far beyond nominal. Indeed, I had made copies. I had also copied and supplied to my attorney tax returns and pension fund statements. There was no hiding the fact that we had significant assets that would need to be divided equitably.

  So, time dragged on: attorneys were hired, documents filed, delays, delays, delays. He fired his first lawyer. Although we never discussed the rationale for his decision, his second choice was a respected and recognized name in the field of family law. He was a more formidable contender, and it likely pained him to pay for the expertise he brought to the table when the two representatives faced off. Deaths, illness, and injuries occurred, causing more postponements. He remained adamant that his offer was fair and justified, and was unwilling to negotiate.

  Attorneys for both sides continued to argue about an adjusted offer. Frustrations mounted as time continued to pass and fees continued to accumulate for each of us. Hostilities increased as each side held the other responsible for the continued deadlock and delay. Telephone and face-to-face planning and reporting meetings occurred between the lawyers. Two years dragged by before the mandatory mediation even grew near, and neither side was hopeful that the process would succeed. I had to miss Christmas with my daughters because of mediation scheduling. I signed up for holiday cooking and painting classes to fill the void left by the absence of time spent with them.

  I sent Lucy to puppy day care on the appointed day, with emergency stipulations for overnight boarding if mediation continued beyond closing. Her crate, typically a fixture in the cargo area of my vehicle, was removed. I wanted him to have no knowledge of anything that was currently happening in my life. Traffic across the Charleston bridges that I would need to traverse in order to arrive punctually at mediation was unpredictable even in good weather. Therefore, I allowed plenty of time for my journey.

  I was the first to arrive at the mediation office, where I began to unpack and settle in. I had known the room would be cold, and I had dressed in l
eggings and knee-high rain boots. I had also donned a camisole, tunic, additional sweater wrap, neck scarf, and full-length, lined raincoat. I began to make our space as cozy as possible for all. It would be a long day, and I wanted my team to be comfortable. I placed Christmas-red tulips in a vase, lit a scented holiday votive, and spread cocktail napkins about. I had baked cookies, cinnamon rolls, and fudge for all to share. Of course I had also brought my recently acquired tablet, which would later be put to good use as negotiations dragged on.

  He and his attorney arrived quite late, not only delaying proceedings but also casting additional doubt on the possibility of our attaining a resolution. As we awaited their arrival, the mediator introduced himself and looked at me, saying, “Tell me two things about your spouse that I don’t know from these documents.”

  That was easy, and my response was quick. “He thinks that attorneys are bottom-feeders.” Then I added, “He was also born with a slight disability. His right arm is a bit too short, and he is unable to reach into his back pocket for his wallet.” Asking for permission to add a third bit of insight, I received it immediately. “He does not go by the name on those documents. Although Jimmy is indeed his given name, it is used only by family members—that is, except for his sister. She calls him Snook.”

  An immediate and mischievous grin spread across the mediator’s face. Looking directly at me, he responded, “I shall think of him only as Snook throughout this mediation process.”

  Although I knew he would be asking the same question as he entered the room to meet my husband and his attorney, I relaxed momentarily. I felt confident that a meaningful alliance had been formed, one that might help ease the frustration of the long day that lay ahead.

  Mediation in South Carolina is not what we see on TV. There are no brightly lit rooms with cozy chairs in which all involved sit around a gleaming table to air their concerns and work through their issues. Compromise and consensus are not reached quickly. Opposing sides are kept apart. As we settled into separate rooms with our respective teams, the skies opened early and thunderstorms hit hard. I had instructed my attorney that I wanted to terminate mediation if we reached a standstill, and by late morning I held out little hope. When we ordered lunch, the soup and pasta I had forced down caused immediate rumblings. I asked my team and the mediator, “Have any clients ever had to vomit during this process?” They assured me that it happened all the time and brought to my attention a conveniently placed wastebasket in the corner. I was not one to humiliate myself by publicly throwing up and was immediately escorted to a private restroom. The mediator returned to where my husband sat with his attorney, and the other team was kept locked down in their respective room until I could compose myself.