Acts of Contrition (35 page)

I look over at Tom, send him a look I imagine I’ll be giving him for the rest of my life, something that blends together sorrow
and grief and love and gratitude, something that conveys that his brokenness is my doing and I know it.

I know now that God provided me with everything I needed, if only I had seen: clues manifest in Patrick—the addict; Tom—the savior; Teresa—the faithful; even Landon—my temptation. Had I allowed myself to work the twelve steps—to admit my powerlessness, to find hope, and to surrender—things might have been different. I clung to Landon when I should have let go, should have known I could jump from the cliff when the water was out with the blind faith that it would rush back in time, should have believed that something better was waiting for me. I lied to Tom because I didn’t trust he would love me through my failings. And I continued to lie because each time I took inventory of the store, it was so full I couldn’t stand the thought of going under. But I should have. I should have trusted.

On Good Friday I spend a couple of hours in the pews of St. Andrew’s working through my tangle of thoughts. Notions that once seemed unbearable, forbidden, strictly prohibited, settle in my brain with a soft
maybe
. Now that Tom knows about Sally, now that Landon has a sliver of a presence in our lives, now that everything is out in the open with the adults, I begin to ponder, consider, the possibility that Sally might someday know the truth.

All those months, I prayed for it to get easier, for our life—Tom’s and mine—to revert to normalcy, for my life to be exactly as it was. But that life was a lie and in my selfish quest to maintain it, I failed to open myself up to the possibility of change.
Different
might be uncomfortable, unknown—but perhaps
better. And maybe from our destruction, we could be remade. As if Sally, with her Greek myths and Bible stories, was trying to warn me all along: All life comes from death.

The truth is, these children aren’t really ours anyway. If I’m lucky, I’ll have Sally for another decade before she launches herself into her future of many decades without me. Someday something in her might alert me that she would be open to hearing the truth. Someday she might hate me for the truth. And then there might be another day, months or maybe years later, when she might forgive me for the truth. I know now that I’m not the custodian of it. Tom has taught me that. It is its own entity, a beast full of steam and vigor of its own that I—a mere mortal—cannot house. We can move forward, but we can never go back.

Easter morning the kids are pumped with excitement over their baskets spilling with candy and with the electric rush of the egg hunt. Tom has hidden a hundred eggs around our house and in the yard. The four children rush around in a frenzy, searching behind sofa cushions inside the house, deep into the bushes outside. I instruct the girls to overlook the obvious ones, to let their brothers find those. By the time the four of them have collectively found about ninety of the eggs, they’re stalled. Tom has hidden some in tricky places and Sally, the competitive one, is getting mad. She insists on a hint and grumbles when Tom shakes his head no. Emily couldn’t care less about finding all one hundred eggs. She’s tired of looking and wants breakfast.

By the time we’re finished, we’re running late. Mass starts at ten thirty and it’s nearly nine forty-five, and the kids are still in
their pajamas. Tom’s rushing the boys onto the toilet, and then I’m dressing them in their Sunday clothes and sticking a toothbrush in each of their mouths. For the girls, we zip and tie and help buckle stiff sandals, order them to scrub their teeth, and slap brushes in their hands to bring in the car. By the time we’re headed in the direction of St. Andrew’s, I’m sweating through my silk camisole, too hot to apply makeup to my perspiring face. We rush into the church and find that it’s packed. The twice-a-year folks have crammed the pews and we’re lucky when we’re able to find a small stretch of wall to lean against.

A cool current of air breezes by me, snaking up my blouse, reaching the back of my neck. Slowly, my breath moderates. The choir starts in on the Gloria and my breathing slows even more. I look across to Tom, the kids, and my shoulders drop. The readings, the response, the Gospel, and all of a sudden I’m lifted to stand straighter, to leave the support of the wall behind me. A shiver or a shudder slithers through me and ends with a teardrop free-falling onto the strap covering my leather sandal.

All those years I believed that I was living with my back up against the wall, that the truth was holding me down, but that was never the case. The truth wasn’t pinning me down, I was pinning
it
down, pushing it mercilessly against the wall with my hand over its mouth. For ten, twenty years I’ve been making deals, bargaining, negotiating. If Landon loves me, I’ll give him another year. If I’m allowed to keep my secret, I’ll be the best wife and mother ever. If Tom forgives me, everything will be all right. But I could no more wrestle the truth than I could tame the seas. I know that now. I accept that I am powerless. And for the first time in decades, I feel strong.

I won’t be entirely free until Sally knows the truth, and that is years away, if ever. For now, I’ll use these years to get ready—to prepare myself for that conversation and its consequences, to lean on God with childlike faith, and to make amends to all in my family, who have forgiven my trespasses.

READERS’ GUIDE

Q.
What was the genesis of this novel? Did a particular character or situation come to mind first?

A. My favorite books are those written by writers who love the “ordinary,” Anne Tyler, Sue Miller. I’m the same way. I’m most interested in characters who are not spectacular in any manner, other than the remarkable ways in which they reveal themselves. I had been thinking about my Mary character, kind of seeing her in my mind: a woman steadfast in her longing for marriage and children, someone who valued a traditional, moral life. But, of course, what does that mean? No one is without fault, so the idea of placing good Mary in a life built on a lie was intriguing to me.

Q.
At the heart of this book is the moral dilemma of telling the truth versus burying it deep within a marriage.

A. When husband Tom learns of Mary’s infidelity, he asserts that he has never once lied to her. Mary counters, “That’s only because you’ve never had anything worth lying about.” Thus the philosophical question: Does everyone have a breaking point? For Mary, offering the truth for its own sake wasn’t enough to risk what she held most dear: her husband, her family, her happiness.

Q.
You named the book
Acts of Contrition,
and certainly there is reason for Mary to feel contrite. How did the title come to you?

A. The title came easily. If Mary were sorry—for the sake of it, because she did wrong and was regretful for it—then her
contrition might have been “perfect.” But Mary was seduced by the good life: her husband, her children, and the life she built with them. In a sense, she made a deal with the devil. So she was contrite, yes, but the reader wonders about her contrition. Certainly it was imperfect. She was more concerned about getting caught, about losing what she had, than about coming clean for the sake of it. Is this to say she was a bad person? Absolutely not. It’s to say that she was human.

Q.
Why do readers connect with Mary’s dilemma?

A. I think
Acts
appeals to women who love reading about marriage and motherhood, and the undercurrents of domestic life that are often messy and rife with secrets. And certainly the juxtaposition of the tumultuous love affair that consumed Mary in her twenties against the reliable, steady ship of a marriage that occupied her in her thirties is something with which women can relate.

Q.
Mary is one of four daughters. Catholic, Italian, connected closely to her siblings and parents. How did you imagine those characters?

A. When I was little I had a great friend, and she was Catholic, Italian, the youngest of four girls. I used to love going to her house, seeing her mother at the stove cooking sauce, her father pushed back in the recliner after work, and the drama of four girls filling the entire house. In my mind, it was a happy house built on strong foundations. I thought it would be the perfect life for Mary.

Q.
You use Tom’s brother, Patrick, as Mary’s mirror, in a sense—and Teresa, her sister, as Mary’s foil. And there is a definite theme of addiction that pours through the text.

A. Mary struggles with Tom’s brother, Patrick, because she recognizes how much alike they are. Patrick is addicted to alcohol, but Mary is no less afflicted; she’s addicted to people. And both rationalize their way out of their addictions. There is a big reliance on bargaining and negotiating one’s actions. I was also drawn to the AA 12-Step program and the similarities it bears to the Act of Contrition prayer. Both require that we take a certain inventory of our lives, admit to our wrongs, and “cash in” the chips we rely on to justify our behavior.

Q.
Tom questions Mary’s “order” for dealing with the lie, specifically that she told Landon first, rather than him. Later Tom wonders if her reason for doing so was because she was hoping Landon would woo her away. Did Mary hope for that?

A. I really don’t think so. Mary felt that her order was to tell Landon, get his word he would stay out of her life, and then go to Tom. I don’t believe she was hoping to be swept away. I do believe she was possibly more comfortable with Landon than with Tom, seeing that she had known Landon for so long and relatively speaking, had known Tom for only a short while. But ultimately, I don’t think Mary had a keen understanding about her reasons for doing things. Like most of us, sometimes we just act, without full consciousness of our motives. That’s the muddy gray area that is so fun to write about.

Q.
Do you think readers will criticize Mary for steadfastly stating that her life’s ambition was to be a wife and mother?

A. Perhaps some, but I know what I’m made of, and though I’ve wanted to be many things in this life, there hasn’t been anything more compelling than being a wife and mother.

Q.
Many writers of literary fiction claim they know their novel has come to an end when their protagonist “lands” on safe ground, when she has found herself enough to come to terms with her crisis. Does Mary get there?

A. Mary cherished the safety of “the devil she knew,” so for her, in order to “land,” she needed to see that she could let go, that she could embrace a future in which things might be unpredictable, a future she might not be able to contrive through negotiation and bargaining. Once she reaches that spot, where she has opened up to the possibility that Sally might know the truth, that Landon might someday be a part of Sally’s life, that the marriage she and Tom share might be made of something other than the stuff of their first decade together, she’s able to grow.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I AM DEEPLY GRATEFUL TO
Amazon Publishing, and senior editor Terry Goodman, in particular. Amazon Publishing has been my constant champion, promoting my debut novel,
Daughters for a Time
, and because of their efforts, an unimaginable number of readers have had the opportunity to spend time with my book. Without hesitation, I was delighted to turn over
Acts of Contrition
to Amazon Publishing as well.

I am mostly thankful to my husband, Kevin. When I first started writing, I had the feeling that I should be doing it in my spare time—after
everything else
was taken care of. I viewed writing as a luxury. Kevin never looked at it that way. He is of the opinion that I am a writer. He believes I should be writing—every day—no questions asked. His support and enthusiasm for my career is a measure of his love for me. I hope he knows that I think he is awesome, too.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR