Seventy-Two Hours (21 page)

The ripples settled and I turned my attention
to the scene on the lake. Just like on Saturday, different types of boats were
on the water.

“You know,” Chris began, “We do have access
to the boat this weekend. Care to take it out?”

For the first time that day, things were
looking a bit up. “Really?”

“Full tank of gas I was told.”

“Do you think we can still salvage this day and
make this our first positive step into a peaceful break-up coexistence?”

“I do.”

I’d never paid mind to the boat house off to
the right of the dock. I had spent the entire time stewing over my
predicament. The little clapboard building that partially hovered over the
water was immaterial to me.

Following Chris over as he withdrew a set of
keys from his pocket to the side-rear door, he selected a shiny silver key and
unlocked it. He motioned for me to precede him with a bit of gentlemanly
flourish before switching on an overhead light. I walked along a U-shaped
section of decking where a pretty decent-sized boat hung in dry dock over the
water below.

“Wow. This is bigger than Jim and Nancy’s
boat,” I said as I reached out and touched the starboard side.

“It’s a cabin cruiser and it comes with the
cottage.”

“How did you find out about this place?” I’d
paid extra attention when we returned from the hospital; there wasn’t a realty
sign I’d missed previously.

“It belongs to Curt Welliver from production.”

At the mention of his name, my thoughts
returned to the Louis Lamour book from Saturday. “Have I ever met him?” I
asked as I searched my memory attempting to think back over every work-related
function we’d attended in the past. I drew a blank.

“Not that I recall, but it isn’t beyond the
realm of possibilities,” he replied before sharing, “Curt’s wife died in
February after battling cancer for almost a year or so. He tried to come back
here this past spring, but he said it wasn’t the same without her. It’s not
listed yet. He thought he’d post it on the board at work and let word of mouth
sell it. He’s not in a hurry or anything.”

My brows knitted together and I had to fight
to swallow before I asked, “What kind of cancer?”

“She had breast cancer.”

“That’s too bad, but I guess I can understand
his reluctance to be here. Once you share so many good memories of a place
with someone and you lose them, it would be hard to return.”

“And I think holding on to the place with all
of the memories would help you feel closer to the person.”

“I suppose that would depend on each
individual. You wouldn’t know what works best for you unless you’ve actually
experienced it. Reminders may prove to be too painful.”

He shrugged. “You’re right. Until you’ve
worn the other person’s shoes, you really can’t presume.”

I shook off the chill our discussion had
given me.

“Should I drop her into the water then?”

My attention returned to Chris and I couldn’t
help but notice the glimmer of hope on his face. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

I’d watched Chris and Jim do the same thing
numerous times in the past and it was relatively easy. The electric winch did
all the work. Chris made certain the boat was safely secured to the dock
before the hull hit the water.

“If you want to run up to the cottage and
grab some bottled water to take along, I’ll take the time to do a safety
check.” He looked down. “And a shirt. I need a shirt.”

“I can do that.” I started for the cottage
and stopped short (not an easy task with my cumbersome aircast) as the doctor’s
warning came back to me with his shirt request. “Chris, take it easy. You’re
supposed to be resting.”

“I will.” He rolled his eyes stubbornly.

“Well, we’re not in a hurry so just take your
time.”

“Fine,” he gave in with, “I’ll
leisurely
do a safety check.”

Within a half hour, we were on the water and
cruising along at a steady clip. The late day sun was an hour or so away from
meeting the horizon and had managed to spill a golden glow over everything. Making
the moment on the water feel almost enchanted.

I wouldn’t allow myself to get caught up in
that illusion though. Nothing had changed between us. We were still the same
people, only a short while ago, trading the nastiest of barbs. No. This was
nothing magical. This was merely a cease fire.

Chris half stood/half knelt on the skipper’s
seat to give himself extra height because at 30 knots, the nose of the sport
cabin cruiser came up. I didn’t take the seat beside him. No. Instead I
chose to sit in the corner port-side aft seat. It gave me a perfect view of
the lake with the shore to my back as Chris headed south and in the direction
of Watkins Glen.

Twenty minutes into our ride, Chris cut the engine
in the middle of the lake and permitted the boat to drift along leisurely. He
joined me by taking the opposite aft corner seat.

“I love it here,” he said with a far off
look.

“Me, too.”

“We’ve had lots of fun times here with the
boys.”

I chuckled. “Like the time Hudson lost his
swim trunks while water skiing?”

Chris nodded and laughed, “He mooned half the
lake that day.”

“It didn’t bother him or make him lose his
form.” And it didn’t. Hudson had been shedding his clothes publicly since he
was a toddler.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep that thing on?”
he asked referring to my discarded aircast.

“I’m stationary. I don’t need it.”

He bent down and picked it up. “On the
contrary, no fashion conscious girl should be without one. It’s the latest
style in footwear; Imperial Stormtrooper shoes. Don’t you want to be a fashion
maven?” he teased.

It was nice to see Chris being silly. A side
of him I rarely saw anymore.

“You are such a nerd, Chris.”

“Why do you say that?” He feigned being
hurt.

“Only a nerd would reference
Star Trek
for my clunky aircast.”

He shook his finger at me and corrected, “
Star
Wars
not
Star Trek
.”

“And only a nerd would know the difference.”

“You used to like my nerdiness.”

“That was when you were younger and wearing a
rather manly varsity letterman’s jacket,” I told him. “You were into every
sport a particular season had to offer in high school. Now you’re into
molecular cohesion and melting points and probably even designer pocket
protectors for all I know.”

“For the record, I’ve never worn a pocket
protector designer or otherwise.”

“So you say, but there’s no proof. Who knows
what you wear at work,” I said with mock skepticism. “You may have a variety
of colors to match a multitude of outfits.”

“You mean to match my color assortment of
polo shirts and Docker’s?”

Chris’ company had a “snappy” casual dress
code. The clothing items he mentioned had become his uniform more or less.
During the colder months, he mixed it up a bit with rugby shirts or sweaters.
He was grateful dress shirts and ties were things of the past.

“Yes. Your mad scientist uniform.”

“Yea, well, my days of being a mad scientist don’t
seem to happen as much anymore. Instead, I crunch numbers, handhold the up-and-comers,
and watch those under me have the scientific breakthroughs.”

“It’s like that when you’re living on the
company’s pedestal. It’s what you worked for. What you wanted.” I wasn’t
trying to make trouble. It was the truth.

“I hope you know I didn’t do all of this for
me. While I liked getting recognition for my accomplishments and creating a
name for myself in the industry, my family was the driving force behind me.
Providing for you and the boys and giving you the life you deserved motivated
me. You can’t take that away from me.”

“No. I can’t take that away from you. You
have always been a wonderful provider. Financially. Whatever we needed.
Always.”

“But?” he asked without a hint of animosity.

I couldn’t believe I was on the verge of
sharing a confidence I had vowed never to share with him. Something that had
terrified me initially. Became a huge burden for weeks. Actually, a little
over two months. Something that was still breathing down the back of my neck
even now. Something that affected me so completely and so outwardly that those
I worked around and lived with recognized it. But not my own husband.

It was because of his apathy during those two
months, my indifference about our routine and lagging marriage turned into
something akin to outright bitterness and resentment. How insignificant had I
become in his life? How could he look at me and not know something was wrong?
Only someone that didn’t care would ignore the signs. The hurt I felt was
indescribable. By the time my trip to Philadelphia came about, there wasn’t
anything anchoring me to my marriage. I didn’t throw myself at Steve, but once
I knew he was interested, he didn’t have to ask twice.

Telling Chris wouldn’t resolve anything, but
there was this part of me that needed him to know what he let me go through
alone. By telling him, the weekend wouldn’t be a complete loss. If anything,
we could look back on it as a time of honesty. Chris should have a full
understanding of why our marriage was over. Maybe he could grow from it. Meet
someone else down the road and have a better relationship with them because of
my total honesty. Just because our life together was coming to an end, didn’t
mean I wanted him alone and unhappy. More than anything, I wanted us to both be
able to move on to something better.

“Jen, what is it?”

I realized how long I’d been lost in thought.
“You asked me when I’d basically given up on our marriage and I told you it
wasn’t one thing, but a conglomeration. That isn’t entirely the truth.”

“Go on,” he said sitting forward and clasping
his hands.

“First, I need to show you something,” I said
as I sat up straighter and then worked the right side neckline of my sleeveless
shirt top to expose my breast. I realized that wasn’t going to work so I went
through the armhole. Even though we were alone on our section of the lake and it
was almost dusk out, I didn’t want to shed my shirt altogether.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Chris
asked almost shrilly as I pulled down on the cup of my bra.

With the upper side of my right breast visible,
you could make out the darker contrast of the ink against my ivory skin. “This
is my other tattoo.”

He moved closer. Half the distance between
us so that he wasn’t on top of me. I heard him huff before saying, “And you
felt compelled to show me
that
?
This
is part of the truth?”

“It’s more than a tattoo, Chris,” I replied
trying to maintain my calm demeanor. I reminded myself he was reacting to the
tattoo in general and not the symbolism of it.

“If this is some sort of way for you to make
a statement about doing what you want with your own body, I’ve already gotten
that message from you the other day,” he clipped with measured disapproval.

“Did you even notice what the tattoo is,
Chris?”

He stepped closer. Jaw tensed, mouth set
firmly into a frown. “It’s a butterfly. On your breast. You had some
stranger put a goddamn butterfly tattoo on your breast.”

“It’s not just the butterfly.”

I would give him credit. Even though it was
taking all of his resolve to humor me, he looked again.

“There’s a large dimple in your breast,” he
said as his eyes came up to meet mine. “Is that a scar of some sort? What the
hell happened?”

“It’s more than a dimple. To me, at any
rate, it’s more like a crater. That’s why I got the tattoo. It sort of
distorts the size and depth of the scar.”

Without a second of hesitation, Chris reached
out and ran his fingers over it. Feather-light with his fingertips at first as
if he were afraid he was going to hurt me and then his touch turned a bit
harder. His eyes met mine again as he silently conveyed a question to me.

“I had a lumpectomy in December. Over winter
break actually. You were away on a trip.”

He jerked his hand back. It was an
involuntarily action. I couldn’t be angry with him for it. It wasn’t
revulsion. It was fear. And shock. Whenever the “C” word was brought up, people
had strange reactions. Reactions against their normal behavior. I fixed my
shirt feeling self-conscious even though I thought I was long past that stage.
I’d been whipping
it
out for so many medical professionals. Diagnosis.
Second opinion. Third opinion. And so on.

But this was different. Allowing the person
you had a history of intimacies with to see the reality of a surgical scar was
quite daunting. The same person, who at one time, claimed to worship that
particular part of your anatomy. I felt shame.