My Husband's Affair Became the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me (27 page)

When the hours passed and it was clear that Brian was delayed, I started to worry.
What if he was in a car accident?
The thought of losing him made it clear to me that I loved him deeply in spite of everything that had happened. I didn’t understand how he could have had an affair on me. Much less did I understand how he could have contemplated leaving our marriage altogether or how he could have been so cruel towards me, but I understood human nature.

I understood how we often fall short of our own ideals. We all do things we are not proud of, things we would like to hide from the world. I also understood that we have a tendency to judge ourselves by our intentions, but judge others by their actions.

I believed that I could forgive Brian. I wanted to forgive Brian. I believed that in spite of all that had happened he was a good man. He was fun and witty, charming and caring. He was an excellent provider and an excellent father. He was strong and handsome, yet gentle and caring. He was highly intelligent. Well, it didn’t matter all that he was. The truth was that in spite of all that had happened I still loved this man.

It was now nine o’clock. Still no Brian. I tried not to worry, but where could he be?

I called again from the phone booth but there was no answer. I called home to see if he had left a message with Danielle. No message.

When it was dark I sent the kids to bed, assuring them that their Dad would be okay. Then I sat staring at the campfire and I worried. Again I tried calling his cell and our home. Nothing. I returned to my lawn chair in front of the fire and stared at the flames again. What else could I do? I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate.

At 10:30 PM the park warden’s wife drove her truck through the quiet campsite and stopped in front of me.

“Mrs. Bercht?” she asked.

‘Yes.”

“The police have contacted me,” she said. “A Constable Wilkinson wants you to call him.”

“What’s wrong?” I questioned.

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He only said that he thought you would be here and that you should call. There’s a pay phone at the camp entrance.”

“Thanks,” I said taking the constable’s name and number. In the pitch black, I managed to dial the right number. I was scared. The constable’s voice broke through the silence of the night.

“Mrs. Bercht, I have your husband here in Clinton,” he said. “I need you to come and get him, and then I’ll release him to you.”

“Is he okay?” I asked. “What happened?”

“Just come. I’ll explain everything when you get here,” he said.

With the help of my car headlights, I wrote out the constable’s directions to Clinton, a forty-five minute drive from the campsite. He cautioned me to drive carefully as it was not unusual to strike a deer while driving in that area at night and at this time of year.

Before I left, I returned to our campsite and woke the kids slightly letting them know I’d be gone for a couple of hours, so they wouldn’t be afraid if they woke up while I was away. I told them that something had happened and I had to pick up Dad. I was comfortable leaving the kids there sleeping, since it was a safe campground

with other families close by if help were needed. Then I followed Constable Wilkinson’s directions, my mind racing.

Release,
I thought to myself.
That’s a strange term. Why did the police officer say that he would “release” Brian to me? Is Brian okay? He mustn’t be in that bad of shape if they’ll “release”him to me? You would think he was in prison or something. Release?

Tears made their way down my face once again. I felt emotionally weak.
I can’t take anymore of this,
I thought to myself.
No more bad things, God. No more, please.

At the police station in Clinton, Constable Davis, the on-duty constable, brought me to Brian, who stood behind bars! I couldn’t believe it. I had never seen anyone in jail before, except for on TV, and this tiny town with its tiny little jail had a Western feel. I felt as though I had just traveled backwards in time. The whole situation was surreal.
What was happening to our nice family?

The constable unlocked the cell. Brian’s eyes were red. I was trying to be strong. I wanted answers.

“Brian, are you alright?” I exclaimed.

He looked at me, face full of sorrow and shame, yet he wasn’t fully focused on me. He didn’t seem to be fully coherent.

‘Your husband was in a motor vehicle accident.” Constable Davis said. He seemed pleased, as if this was the first police work this town had had in months. I wanted to go and grab my husband and get him out of that awful cell.

‘Your husband has been drinking,” Constable Davis continued. “There were no other vehicles in the accident. He drove off the road near a farmer’s field.”
A farmer’s field!
I thought to myself. I considered the winding road full of canyons and cliffs and marveled.
Had Brian managed to drive off the road at the only flat place on that long journey?
His vehicle had sustained extensive damage but he was completely uninjured. It was a miracle.

For the first ten years of our marriage Brian and I had practiced total abstinence from alcohol. In the past eight years we had enjoyed the very occasional drink.
How could my husband be drunk?

“What do you want me to do?” I asked the constable.

“We want you to take your husband with you. We usually keep impaired drivers here overnight unless we can release them to a family member,” he explained. “He is not allowed to drive for three days. Then he can drive for thirty days during which time he has the right to appeal the conviction, after that he can’t drive again until his court date which is set for the end of September.”

As more details emerged, my heart sank. Brian could lose his license for a year. There would likely be a stiff fine. The car, undrivable, had been towed to Clinton.

I imagined that the Constable was judging us as bad people.
This man has no idea,
I thought,
no idea how even some of the highest quality of people, even the highly educated and model citizens sometimes have problems too. Life is not easy for anyone, and we can all fall sometimes.
I didn’t understand how my husband had gotten from the happy man that answered his cell phone on his way to go camping with his family a few hours earlier to the man that was now inebriated and being “released” from jail, but I still knew that Brian was a good person.

I signed some papers and Brian and I drove back to the campsite. Brian kept apologizing.

“It’s okay,” I answered him. “Thank God you’re okay.” And I was truly grateful for that. I was also truly grateful that no other people or vehicles had been involved in the accident. I didn’t think I could handle it if his negligent behavior had claimed an innocent life.
What was wrong with him,
I wondered as I drove down the dark road?
What was he thinking? How could he do such a thing? Take such a risk?

As we continued to drive, I heard a strange sound beside me: a cry and a gasp for air. It sounded like crying, but it couldn’t be. I turned on the light to see what it was.

To my astonishment my husband
was
crying. I didn’t know what to think, but under the circumstances, crying seemed to me like a good idea. I thought about Helen and wondered if she would have been supportive of Brian in this situation. I was pretty sure the answer was no.

When we got back safely to our campsite, I helped Brian to our makeshift bed, and embraced him tightly as we fell asleep in each other’s arms. I awoke in the morning to the sounds and vibrations of Brian crying in my arms.

“My life is over,” he said. “I’ve really blown it.”

“No, Brian. You’re life isn’t over. It ain’t over ‘til it’s over. When we face our problems we can always get through them. You have a lot going for you. You have a wife who is willing to stand by you, who loves you and does not want to give up on you. You are a good man, going through a bad time. You are in the middle of your story, not as you think, at the end. Sure the past few months have been bad. Yes, you have made some bad choices and yes there will be consequences, but it ain’t over ‘til it’s over. You have three kids to live for. Two of them are outside waiting for you to get up. We are here in this beautiful place today. You were in an accident last night, but you weren’t even injured. No one was injured. We are together with the ones that we love and we have enough food to eat. Get up. Spend some time with your kids and we’ll talk more later.”

It felt good to hold my husband. He was devastated. Like children playing games who call for a “do-over,” Brian needed a “do-over” in his life. He also needed what we all need sometimes: forgiveness.

After having our classic camping breakfast of bacon and eggs, Brian played with the kids in the water.

Then Brian and I headed off for a walk together.

“I’ve really screwed up this time, Anne,” he said. I wondered how he could think the events of last night could be worse than the betrayal he had put me through.

“What happened?” I questioned him. “Why couldn’t youjust drive up here uneventfully? What the heck did you do?”

“I just wanted to relax,” he explained. “There’s been so much pressure for so long. I wanted to make the pain go away, so I stopped at the beer store and picked up a six pack. After one beer, I just wanted one more.”

“How many beers did you drink?” I asked.

“I don’t know. A six pack I think.”

“You drank the whole thing!” I naively thought that that was a lot.

“I just needed a break from the pain,” he said. “I just wanted to relax. I didn’t realize how many I had drunk.”

I could hardly believe he had made such a poor decision.

“Anne, my life is over. I’m going to lose my driver’s license,” he said. “I won’t be able to get to work. I’m so sorry. I’m such a loser.”

“You have really screwed up big time, but it’s not over,” I said. “We’ll see what happens. We’ll figure something out.”

We put our arms around each other as we walked. We were two broken people.
How could things be going so wrong in our lives ?
We had both tried so hard to do what was right. We pulled each other close. The pain was great, but so was the love between us.

We told the kids there was an accident, but didn’t mention the alcohol. When we headed home and I did all the driving, we just told the kids we were in the mood for a change.

Back at home, Brian still refused to go for counseling. However, he did agree to attend a marriage course for couples starting in September. The leaders of the church promised us that this was just what we needed, the answer to all of our problems, so we sat tight and waited.

The week after the accident, we phoned the Clinton auto repair shop and learned that the repairs on the van would cost more than it was worth. With no collision insurance, it was not worth keeping.

I drove to Clinton to retrieve our belongings from the van, but first stopped at the police station to pick up some paperwork.

At the station, I talked to the on-duty officer, saying that Brian was not a drinker, and that only one six pack had led to these unfortunate circumstances.

“Ma’am,” he said shaking his head compassionately. “Your husband’s blood alcohol level was very high. He drank a lot more than a six pack.”

“How much did he drink?” I asked, desperate for a straight answer. I was sick and bloody tired of being lied to.
How many times would I be deceived,
I wondered? All I wanted from anyone was truth right now, the whole truth. No more lies.

“I’d say your husband would have had to have drunk at least a twelve pack in a couple of hours to get his blood alcohol reading that high.”

Again I was shocked, embarrassed and humiliated.

When I went to the van to get our belongings, the officer’s comments were confirmed: The van was full of empty beer cans, scattered around from the impact of the accident. I counted more than six.

As I made the long drive home, I was so angry that I had been lied to again. I considered never trusting him again, getting out of the marriage and cutting my losses.

“How dare you lie to me again?” I asked Brian that evening when I picked him up from work.

“Well I don’t remember how much I drank,” Brian defended.

“Brian you made me look like a fool. You should have seen the way that policeman looked at me as though I were some sort of a hopeless basket case, believing that a man could get that drunk on six beer,” I said. “Don’t you realize that if we are going to rebuild this marriage I need the truth? I never want to appear that foolish again.”

“Really, Anne, I didn’t know how much I drank,” Brian said. “I lost track. It was hot and I was so thirsty. I didn’t mean to make you look bad.”

“Brian, you should know better than to drink and drive,” I said. “Drinking even impairs your judgment as to whether or not you should have another beer. You should have just waited until you got there to relax.”