During my sessions with Louise, we’ve been talking through my choices. She’s pointed out that I never really got over Digby’s death or my role in it. That I was afraid to let myself feel vulnerable again. Maybe choosing to marry Simon was my way of protecting myself from pain, insulating myself from the world, and by wrapping myself in his protection, I’ve managed to numb myself for too long.
Now I’m exposed for the first time in forever. Letting myself feel emotions I’d forgotten about.
Passion. Fear. Vulnerability.
“It will hurt at first,” she tells me. “Like when you pull a scab off a fresh wound. It might sting, it might get infected, but eventually it will heal again.”
“What if I’d rather feel numb?”
“That’s your choice. But if you honestly feel that way, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you just going back to your old life, to your marriage? The fact you’re coming to counselling tells me there’s something you’re not happy with.”
She’s right. She always is. Louise seems to have this ability to make me see myself more clearly. To cut through the bullshit and say it as it is.
I’m still thinking about it when Michael clears away the last of the paint bottles and says goodbye. I remember the other things Louise has suggested, that I should decide what I want, and not rely on everybody else to make decisions for me.
But what will make me happy? Not staying like I am, because at the moment it’s making me feel miserable. When I rule that out, I know that the only option is to change things, to either transform my marriage or walk away.
We’ve tried to mend it. Both of us. For the past five weeks we’ve talked about making things better, but all we’ve done is talk. Neither of us has actually made any difference. Things are still the same as they were.
I don’t want this any longer.
I’m tired of fighting for something I don’t want anymore.
It doesn’t feel as though there’s even a decision to make.
* * *
We’ve been talking for an hour; going in circles, walking the painful perimeter of our marriage. Simon’s sitting in his usual chair, his elbows on his thighs as he leans forward. I’ve noticed that Martin, our counsellor, has gone silent. He says nothing, watching us with interested eyes.
“I’m not happy,” I tell Simon. “Neither of us are. And it feels as though we’ve done everything we can to make this work. What else is there to do?”
He says nothing for a moment. Just stares at me. His face looks drawn, old, and I keenly feel the difference between our ages.
“Christ.” He rubs his face with open palms. “I don’t know. It just feels like you’re giving up too soon. I made you happy before, I know I did.”
I nod, trying not to let my eyes fill with tears. “You did.”
“So let me do it again. Stop fighting me all the time. Stop questioning me. Just let me take care of you the way I want to.”
It doesn’t work like that. He makes me sound as if I’m some sort of pet waiting to be groomed. Not somebody with my own feelings, emotions. My own needs.
“That’s not what I want.”
“What about what I want?”
“I don’t think you want me like this.” My laugh is mirthless. We both know he was looking for companionship and love, not a messed-up wife who is clearly unhappy. I feel a flash of sadness that I can’t be who he wants me to be; beautiful, friendly. A trophy wife.
“So what do we do?”
I take a deep breath, trying to summon some courage. We can dance around this all day—God knows we have been—but eventually one of us is going to have to say it. Even as I open my mouth I hesitate, my heart full, my throat hurting, because as soon as I say the words I know nothing will be the same again.
I still need to say them, though.
“I think we should separate.”
Slowly, he stands up and walks over, kneeling in front of me. Tears spill over my cheeks. He lays his head down in my lap, as if in supplication, and I find myself stroking his thin hair as he breathes into my thighs. We stay there for minutes, his tears soaking my jeans, my own still pouring down my face. Eventually he looks up, his eyes red, his hair mussed from my caresses.
“Stay,” he whispers, taking both of my hands in his. “Stay with me.”