While I'm Gone

Chapter 7 - Emerging

My heart sank, and I felt such an acute pain in my temples, I thought I'd faint.

I was still struggling to process that last phrase when Alex tried to explain himself in a maddeningly calm voice. "I'm sorry, I know I should have talked to you earlier. Before you brought us here, for this getaway. But the truth is I'm not happy... and you're certainly not happy and–"

"You're having an affair, aren't you?" My voice was shaky, the words barely coming out.

He shook his head.

I held his hand. "What have I done wrong?"

"No, God no! It's not you... it's me."

"Oh, for goodness' sake! That's the oldest and lousiest line ever. Can't you do any better than that?"

"I'm so sorry, I really don't know how to make this easier. It's just that... I can't, I can't do this anymore." He grabbed his jacket and headed to the entrance hall.

"Oh, yes, let's not talk about this! Why would we? Go and leave me here instead. That's very mature!" My voice rose with each and every word.

In the end, Alex slammed the door shut, leaving me crying, feeling like I'd shattered into pieces.

How could he drop a bomb like that and then leave?

I felt nauseous.

I'd seen his mood swings and his highly erratic behaviour over those last months. He was bored inside and out and seemed absolutely consumed and exhausted by his work, but I still couldn't put the pieces of the puzzle together. I believed it was just a phase, yet I had definitely underestimated the situation.

A year ago we'd seemed like the perfect couple, and now this absolute mess.

Or maybe we hadn't been perfect at all; maybe it was simply a distorted version of some imagined life I thought we had. Where had I failed?

My inner voice quickly steered those thoughts into another direction, freeing me from the guilt I was about to feel. He's having an affair, that's for sure. I'll bet it's with some tart from the office!

Or maybe he'd dared to pull a stunt like his old friend Santiago had two years before. The man had met someone online and promptly announced he'd found the true love of his life, and walked out on an eighteen-year relationship to move in with some twentyish amazing-understanding boobs-still-where-they're-supposed-to-be bint. My friend Julia almost collapsed, lost forty pounds and nearly lost her mind as well.

It's amazing how people can surprise you: Santiago had always been the quiet, low-key, straight-up guy. He'd seemed completely honest and trustworthy. In short, he'd been the ultimate Mr Goody Two-Shoes, completely devoted to his wife and kids.

On the other hand, Julia had always been so strong and dynamic. Sometimes she could be as temperamental as a hurricane, but when the whole affair came to light, she was totally crushed, fragile, adrift. Losing her own nature, she swallowed her pride and announced from the start that she'd be ready to forget the betrayal, open her arms and welcome him back.

But Santiago had seemed firm in his decision and had no plans whatsoever to return to his old life. He was finally happy, at peace with himself, or so he used to say.

Eventually, Julia became more like her old self, and a couple of months later decided to turn the tables on him. Told him to disappear, and refused to answer any of his daily phone calls or allow any more personal visits – Oh, yes, he had left her, but not their bed, I would later be told. So, as twisted as the whole thing was, for a while Julia played the role of the mistress herself.

Resolutely, she signed the divorce papers. Then, in another absurd twist, Santiago immediately woke up, bitterly regretted parting, cried his eyes out and came home crawling and begging for forgiveness. What a bampot!

And guess what? Less than a year later they remarried. Go figure!

As hard as I tried, I couldn't fall asleep that night. My mind kept wandering on that thought: what had I done wrong?

When I checked the clock for the hundredth time, it was half past three in the morning and Alex hadn't returned yet.

Eventually, my body gave in to the utter exhaustion.

________

A thin beam of light slipped through the curtains, stroked my face, waking me. Numbness enveloped me as I opened the sliding doors carefully and inspected the living room. I hadn't heard him coming, but Alex was there already, sleeping on the sofa.

Silently, I splashed my face with cold water, dressed, and left the room. I hurried down the corridor, stabbing impatiently at the call buttons, wishing for the lift to arrive. I felt constricted, I desperately needed to get out into the open air.

Finally, the doors slid open, and I stepped in, sagging into the brass handrail. Before pushing the button to go down, I raised my eyes and glanced at the reflected image in the mirror.

It seemed as if I'd aged by about ten years. My face lacked expression, I had huge dark circles around my red and swollen eyes, and the fine age lines in my face had turned into deep wrinkles. I looked paler than usual, almost anaemic. My hair was in a critical state, too. I combed it with my fingers, gathering it in a low ponytail and fastening it with an elastic band I took from my bag.

The lift started to descend. Through the speakers some slow, relaxing melody I didn't immediately recognise drifted to me. But suddenly I did know what it was, and had to gasp for breath: it was a mushy, nauseatingly sappy love song – oh yes, that was all I really needed...

A soft ding sounded, and the doors slid open. I rushed through the lobby and went out into the street, put on my sunglasses and my headphones, the cold morning breeze brushing my face as I started walking with no destination in mind.

I strolled aimlessly around the old downtown district for quite a while before taking a ride on the tram. My destination was Alfama, a beautiful old Moorish neighbourhood with narrow alleys, tiny staircases, canary cages, and laundry hanging from one window to another. I ended up sitting by the river shore, appreciating the view, gathering my thoughts and myself together.

Eventually, my phone rang. It was Alex.

I chose not to answer.

There were already several missed calls from him, but I was too angry to talk. Oh yes, I was furious indeed, completely infuriated by his attitude. It wasn't pain I was feeling. No. It was anger. No. It was rage! Far less painful than anguish and agony, I must say. Somehow the anger helped me preserve some sanity and kept me from becoming a wreck; it forced me to decide if I wanted to sink or to swim.

And, as in all the other times of trouble before, I decided I wouldn't drown.

In the end, I sent him a text message: 'I'll meet you at the airport.'