Regeneration X (28 page)

“I would, if it made you happy. The last thing I want to do is prevent your happiness if you thought being together would make you happy. I see you are happy, but is this because in the back of your mind you depend on us being together again? You said what was cool about regeneration was we still had us. I don’t want you to feel as though you’ve lost that.”

“You know, I wondered sometimes if you even heard the things I said. You hadn’t regenerated then. And if you had heard, I wasn’t sure if my comments even made sense to you. Right now, I think both of us are talking around the hedges, so to speak, neither of us saying we want to try leading our own lives, not necessarily without the other, but not together, either,” I said boldly, but looked at him questioningly.

“Yes. I think we should give it longer, at least until you are done with school here. I think by then I will be prepared to consider the possibility of moving here, or you may decide to come back to Seattle. But neither of us are promising that we won’t decide anything before then.

“What I’m saying is, we’re not talking divorce, but we are not reconciling as of yet. I want you in my life forever, but maybe not how it’s been. Agreed?”

“Agreed. And since we are being frank, what I find so utterly frustrating is why we couldn’t be the people we are now when we were together. I’ve always loved you, but somewhere along the way, it became more of a platonic love. The person I’m speaking to now is a man I could be
in
love with.”

“I know. The woman you are now, the vibrancy I see, is how I would want you to always be. I wouldn’t want to crush that if we were to get too comfortable again. In twenty years we would be right where we started.”

I leaned over to embrace him tightly and he reciprocated. He kissed my cheek and said, “And don’t be afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?” I asked gently. Was there something he wasn’t telling me? “Is there something wrong? With your health?”

“No. No. I promise I’m fitter than ever. I just meant, don’t be afraid to live your life. If you find someone, I want you to tell me and not be afraid. I want you to feel you are truly free to make whatever choices you want.”

Christ! How could I not be in love with this man? “Michael! You are making this really hard. Why do you have to be so amazing? Just stop!”

We got up then to tour the buildings of my new college. I told Michael about my friends. I did not mention Parker since it didn’t seem relevant. We talked about Seattle some more and he asked me if I missed the life in the US. I did, but it was more like a memory, it wasn’t home. It was hard to believe I had spent my days talking to myself, facing a computer for ten or more hours each day, obsessing about the house and its’ too few or too many contents. “You know how I said we weren’t making memories? Well, the house, Seattle, my daily grind; they all seem one big memory. All the days squeeze together as if they happened in a day.”

June 17, 2026

Everything Michael said was fine except for one part. And I can’t help noticing that every time I’ve asked him if he loves me he never says the words. When I say the words, he doesn’t say them back. Maybe, as I’m in the habit of doing, I’m overanalyzing again. But I almost feel he’s using me as an excuse instead of coming out and saying he really just doesn’t love me anymore.

I didn’t even bother mentioning the crazy idea of us having children. It wouldn’t solve anything and would probably only serve to force our affections back toward one another. Creating new resentment was not the point of our separation.

Besides, we’d been over the topic of children long ago. If it happened then, we’d be happy about it and figure everything out when the time came. If not, one of us would have to bring it up again, and we’d plan and commit to bringing a little human into the world. Neither of us brought it up again in the additional 12 years we’d been married.

Now the concept seemed a last-ditch effort to have something in common and to salvage our relationship. I surely didn’t want to be talking about it at this very moment, either … maybe in ten or fifteen years.

If we get back together by our own agreement, I will bring it up then.

Chapter Twenty-five

You are my true and honourable wife,

As dear to me as are the ruddy drops

That visit my sad heart.

—William Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar (2.1)

・
・
・

THE FOLLOWING DAY WE WALKED AND WALKED, starting from the Queen’s Walk to South Bank back to the Embankment to Baron’s Arms where we stopped for sustenance and sips of ale. One of Michael’s goals for this trip was to try the variety of local cuisine, and sample as many scotches and ales as he could stomach, while still being able to remember and enjoy his trip. Deciding to forgo a second scotch and the blood sausage after his taste test of the fish and chips he pronounced a thumbs up, but added, “The tarter sauce could be tartier.”

He talked a good deal about becoming dean and all the responsibilities it would entail. His only reason for hesitation was not being able to teach his material any longer. I proposed he consider teaching an art history course at another college if being dean at the university meant he couldn’t teach anymore. I wondered how he felt about managing people and budgets since administration was never his passion or strongpoint, but didn’t want to sound discouraging by asking. By the time we got up to leave, I had the full story.

Next stop was Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus, and more walking and gawking at sculptures, and randomly remarking on the sights. I wanted to make sure Michael had time to absorb the art scene in London, so we took the tube to Blackfriars and spent the remainder of the day at the Tate. A passing tour guide commented, “Most modern art is rubbish, anyone can have an idea,” to which I would append, the problem is not the artist and his or her art, but the purveyors who spread the idea. Even bad art is worthy.

“Anything can be art if it is marketed correctly. I take issue with this,” Michael said to me under his breath. “The modern art museums have to have something to display, but sometimes I think they should just place a description placard on a blank wall. In some cases a piece like that would be more poignant.”

To this end, we saw a full range of crap, as well as some very inspirational and awing concepts displayed. Michael thought the building itself and its gallery spaces left the greatest impact on the connoisseur. He also appreciated the large, concrete-filled crack or fault line, which extended the length of the main entrance hall. “Interesting idea. We fill in the fissures when things start to fall apart, but the fix is never really seamless, is it?” he said, off the cuff. Hearing his perspective, I had missed the man I married.

Afterward, caffeinating our way to Westminster from the Oxo live/work studios and galleries area, we strolled the more political byways toward Buckingham Palace. Before we reached it, we meandered through St. James Park, which was particularly beautiful this time of year. The English definitely know their gardens. We tried to feed a healthy squirrel (who obviously gets by on cuteness), some onion and cheese cracker chips. The discriminating fella rejected our offer and ran off, deciding not to waste his time or wiles on us. Proceeding to Buckingham Palace, he took obligatory pictures of the fuzzy helmeted guard at the gates and we moved along to the next park, aptly named Green Park. I think England may have more Sycamores than the whole of the US Midwest.

The next few days were filled with excursions to more museums, such as the National Galleries, the British History Museum, Madame Tussauds, and Tower of London Torture Museum as well as day trips to Stratford Upon Avon, Windsor Castle and Hampton Court, and Oxford; places I hadn’t visited in decades myself. We also took a whole day specifically to tour London’s pubs where Michael tried a full range of scotches, and me and my meads and ports. By early evening, we were “pissed” as the Brits say, but cheerful. Before we knew it, it was Michael’s last evening and we set out for a nice dinner so he could experience the best steak ever, in my opinion, at the Northfield.

He returned to Seattle the following day and for a moment, I felt free. For the past six months, the idea of us lurked in the recesses of my mind, akin to an old photograph I had been afraid to look at in case there was an after image I hadn’t seen before. I dwelled on our first serious conversation, analyzing Michael’s words for hidden meaning. Was I wrong in thinking he wanted release? It was a long time to hold onto something, which no longer existed. Although he told me not to be afraid in pursuing a romantic relationship with someone else, was he saying this because he had already found someone else? Or was he setting the groundwork for such a confession at a later time?

June 24, 2026

These past two weeks, apart from sleeping in the bed together—it’s so awkward when I think about it, but it wasn’t at the time—there was no physical intimacy. Neither of us attempted, or acted, as if it had ever been anything otherwise. It felt more as though I was having a friend stay over than us being husband and wife.

All along and despite everything, in the back of my mind, I’ve been thinking I could always go home, go back to Michael and be safe—resume where we left off. But now I don’t know. I’m starting to get this uncomfortable feeling we’ve been separated too long. I knew we couldn’t return to the same place, but it’s starting to look as if it’s too late to return to anything resembling a romantic relationship. The depressing thing is, these two weeks, he’s been more like the man I married and I could love him again, so easily, if only we could stay this way. But it’s too late—the minds and hearts (and bodies) don’t match up.

At the beginning, before CR, I told him my career was boring and our marriage wasn’t enough. Seems it’s come down to one or the other—new career or old marriage in the form of roommates. I wish I could just come out and say it. I’m sure he’s thought of it himself. We don’t exist anymore. It’s he and I—each on our own—like Inez and I—friends but nothing more.

It was good to get some things aired out and determine what the next plan was, but now that I think about it, it doesn’t make sense. We were separated for six months and now we were contemplating separation for another two, maybe three, years. How could two people come back together after that long, seeing each other only once or twice a year and talking on the phone?

This is definitely not closure, but it’s supposed to be temporarily.

Even if I can walk through the mud, how can I clean off the dirt I’m covered in? It was me who started all this and it’s my fault. Now I have to wait for Michael to hand me the clean white towel.

“Not good. Not good,” I mumbled to myself the next morning when I woke up after Michael left. I’d dreamt that dream.

“Michael and I are on the trail again. This time, although we came together in the car, which was parked at the base of the mountains at one of the visitor centers, we each chose a different path. You know how that can only make sense in a dream?”

Inez nodded, but politely didn’t interrupt. She’s a great listener.

“In my dream, I’ve done the trails a few more times than him; I decided to take a more challenging route. We planned to meet later and I hoped to see him already settled at the shelter by evening. And, although from past experience I knew that traipsing around on the Alps was dangerous, I let him go alone. I went alone.

“Suddenly, I’m at the top of the peak looking down on the mountain lake, this time seeing the view from a completely different angle. Scoping the other peaks, I see Miles waving from a distance. I wave back and resume my climb down the trail toward the lake.

“Michael is standing there gazing into the depths of ice-blue water as I approach. Without uttering a word, he passes me a white feather, holding another is his hand. We walk over to the lake and set our feather boats afloat. We watch for what seems some time. The feathers remain afloat, but with so little current in the water, they were staying close to the rocky shore and to one another.

“I woke up befuddled. It was a pleasant dream in an uncertain kind of way. Weird thing is, I had not experienced any of this with either Michael or Miles. No previous dream like this … separate trails … or standing at the lake watching anything floating along.

“White feathers … like women used to present during war to pacifist, able-bodied men who chose not to fight. Michael handed me one and kept one for himself. So either my dream is stating we released each other from burden or that we recognize each other’s cowardice,” I said.

“Probably both. Do you ever talk to Michael about these dreams? Have you spoken with Dr. Baum recently?”

“You know, we’ve been married for so long and we count ourselves as each other’s closest friend, mainly because we know one another through our actions over many many years. I realize we don’t, and maybe never have, truly shared actual thoughts when it comes to feelings. Actually, our conversations while he was here were as close to emotions as we have ever shared.

“So no, I’ve never talked with Michael about these dreams, not like this. The first time I had this dream, I remember he wasn’t home at the time and afterward. I had just said, ‘I’ve been having these strange dreams of memories.’ Michael and I talk about reality.”

“I can see that. He doesn’t strike me as the metaphysical type.”

 
“We were different once,” I said quietly.

“Are you going to talk to Dr. Baum?”

“I can’t possibly run to Dr. Baum every time I wake up confused. I didn’t need him for over 50 years, I think I just have to let go a little. Besides, it’s not as though there is an actual psychological problem here. Michael and I left things on the most positive footing it’s been in decades. Even though it’s pretty much the same, there is no longer the attached guilt.”

“Mmhm,” Inez murmured in agreement. “It’s pretty clear. The beginning, when you each take different paths, you the more difficult one. I wonder what the significance of the rocky shore is,” she said, ruminating a minute before saying, “Maybe it isn’t so much that there is turmoil ahead. More like if you go back and now you’re both of the same mind coasting along in the same calm.”