You Only Get So Much (12 page)

Chapter 24

The Wolfe Creek Lodge
looks like a dive. From the freeway, there's a big sign that looks like it
could be directing people to a seedy motel or forgotten ski lodge, not a nice
restaurant. But despite its rough exterior, it's the best steakhouse within 50
miles of Spokane. They cook the meat on an open stone grill, surrounded by
layers of thick salt that soaks up any drips of the juices. My parents used to
bring Trevor, April and me to the restaurant, which has been open for decades.
The cooks would let us stand right next to them as they turned the meat. If
this was a backyard barbeque this would be a monumentally boring event, but for
some reason, it's thrilling to watch here—at least it was when I was
younger and that feeling still hasn't passed.

The gravel parking lot
crunches under my truck's tires as Michelle and I pull into the parking lot.
She's dressed in a long gray sweater, white infinity scarf, black leggings, and
boots with knit socks poking out the top. Despite being completely covered up,
she looks stunning. I'm quite thankful that Kendall gave me the quickie
makeover before I left. I would have felt quite inadequate in my polo shirt
next to such a stunner.

The place is packed, but
the hostess seats us in a corner table hidden from most of the other patrons,
which suits me just fine. I'd prefer to have her all to myself.

I didn't pick the Wolfe
Creek Lodge at random. It's 10 miles east of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, which itself
is a 35 minute drive from Spokane. This is the where I took Michelle for dinner
on our prom night.

"I haven't been
back here since prom," she reveals after we each order a glass of wine.
"It looks exactly the same."

"Hopefully the
steaks are from this decade," I say.

She chuckles at my lame
joke. Her bright smile seems to cast more light than the candles on our table.
She's beautiful and happy. And doesn't stop smiling all through dinner.

* * *

The conversation flows
easily from memories of our past to our positions in life today.

"After college at
the University of Montana, I moved to Canada," she said.

"Exciting
choice."

"For sure. If you
think we've got Evergreen trees in Spokane, you've never seen a forest in
northern Canada."

"I can't say that I
have," I say. "Why Canada?"

"A man named Russ.
Well, a boy. He was a contractor for an American lumber company, who accepted a
position near Kamloops, British Columbia. I moved up there with him. It was a
hub for lumber sales, and not really that far away from Spokane. You could
drive back in one day if you had to."

Her voice seemed to
falter on that statement, "if you had to."

"You sound like you
had to," I say.
 

"Just once, that
was enough," she says, taking a sip of wine. "Russ was a good guy,
but we were both immature and stupid and should never have gotten married. I
was bored and couldn't find a job locally because there were none. And besides
I wasn't a Canadian citizen. Everybody thinks they are so nice, but not when
you threaten their job prospects. They don't like that."

"So what
happened?" I asked.

"He got offered a
promotion—this time even farther north into Canada. No thanks. I had no
interest in following him again. At that point I'd been in Canada for more than
five years. I was practically a local. I'd made friends and even found
work."

"So you wanted to
stay?"

"Not exactly. I
wanted him to stay," she said. "But the job was more important and he
left. I didn't see myself living there alone, so I came back here."

"So you regret
getting married?"

"No. It's not like
that. I learned a lot. Is that bad?" she asks.

I can tell she wants
affirmation of her decisions, but who am I to judge?
 

"No. Marriages
don't always turn out the way you see them in romantic movies," I say.

"Is that what
happened to you?" she asks.

"I made a lot of
mistakes and have to live with the results of them."

"What kind of
mistakes?"

"Too many to
count."

The waitress arrives at
our table with dinner, providing me the perfect opportunity to change the
subject and enjoy dinner.

*
* *

After dinner we head
back toward Spokane, but stop in Coeur d'Alene first. City Park is one of the
most popular places to visit in the entire area. It's huge and adjacent to Lake
Coeur d'Alene, a well-used body of water with boaters, swimmers and events. The
18-story Coeur d'Alene hotel and resort—the area's anchor
business—sits to the east of the park, overlooking the entire area.

The park itself is
simple. It's treed with paved pathways, has large expanses of green lawns,
boasts a castle-like playground structure, and a stage for concerts.

I've always liked the
park and have visited it many times, which is why I suggested Michelle and I
take a stroll through it after dinner. And, considering we'd come here together
when we were in school, it seemed to make sense to return.

 We park in a lot
by the resort and wind our way along the pathway near the beach. Every few
hundred feet there are several concrete steps that lead into the sandy beach, which
is empty except for several white lifeguard towers. The sun is just setting and
with the autumn chill in the air, I'm glad I bundled up for this little trek.

Unfortunately Michelle
didn't know we would be outside. I realize this after we reach the end of the
park, just before the pathway leads to the campus of North Idaho College. Her
thin cotton coat is no match for the biting breeze.

"Here, take my
coat," I say.

"No, I'm
fine," she says, teeth chattering.

"If you were fine I
wouldn't be able to see the goose bumps through your coat."

She smiles as I put my
coat over her shoulders, then she pulls me close to her.

"Now, I guess I'm
required to keep you warm too?" she says playfully, wrapping her arms
around my back.

She smells wonderful,
like ginger or lilac. I can't tell if it's the scent of her hair or an
intoxicating hint of perfume.  Being so close to her feels good. New.
Different.

"Yes, that was my
plan all along," I say. "To freeze you into hugging me."

"Well, your evil
plan worked."

She cranes her neck. And
with the natural movement of longtime lovers, we kiss. Soft and tentative at
first, then as the familiarity returns our mouths intertwine. She feels
confident and strong, running her hands over my back and neck. Her body heat
radiates toward me and I forget about the cold entirely as I focus my attention
on her. The sun has now set and we're only illuminated by park lights. Just two
people standing in the shadows.

"I've wanted to do
that since the moment I first saw you," I say.

"That would have
been super awkward in front of all those kids and parents," she says,
pressing her cheek to my chest. "Good call on waiting."

I want to kiss her
again. Well, more than that, but I wait. I don't want to seem too eager.

"I'm pleased to
know my romantic tendencies are still sharp," I say, as we hold hands and
start back the way we came. "You know, feed you a massive dinner of red
meat, and then march you out in the cold of a public park. Nothing like that to
get the romance started!" 

"For sure,"
she says, grinning.

"Maybe returning to
our old stomping grounds was a good idea," I say. "I always liked
coming here with you."

"How do you
mean?" she asks, still smiling, but with a faint questioning look on her
face.

"The Wolfe Creek
Lodge and the park."

As the words leave my
mouth, I realize my mistake. I'm such and idiot. I've never been here with
Michelle. Ever. Sure, we went to the steakhouse on prom, but never the park. In
high school no one would never drive all the way to Coeur d'Alene just to take
a stroll. It's too far. I'd come here with Jane when we were married, with our
child. I feel about two feet tall.

I can clearly see a
picture of the park in the summer time with my wife and daughter both sitting
on the swings. But for some reason I can see Michelle too. The young Michelle I
used to know. She's there too. Walking in the park. Sitting on a blanket.

I feel dizzy, but try to
hide it. I'm not used to this. I'm not ready. Not by a long shot.

"You came here with
Jane, didn't you," she asks. "It's OK. I understand how your past can
sometimes mix you up. Our history is what makes us who we are today and as we
become old—like we are—it's harder to separate out where those
memories come from."

"Sorry, I wasn't
thinking," I say.

"So you associated
me with your wife? The person you lived with and loved for years. The person
you had a child with? How is that a bad thing?"

She's taking this way
better than I think I would have.

"You're pretty
awesome, you know that?" I say.

"That's what my
parents keep telling me," she says, bumping me with her shoulder. "I
think it's called only-child syndrome."

"You're pretty well
adjusted for being the center of your parent's world."

"Don't let me fool
you."

"Can I be honest
with you?"

"That sounds
ominous."

"It's not that bad,"
I say.

"OK."

"I have a hard time
talking about my past and not mentioning Jane," I say. "We were
together for so long and had Aspen. Nearly everything in my past—except
for the past 12 years were spent with her. Good times and bad."

"I get it."

"I don't want to
paint over it because it's me. It's my life. But I also don't want to make you
think that I'm lost in the past, trying to relive the memories that I
had."

"Like I said, our
past makes us who we are. I understand," she says.

"But that's just
it. I don't know who I am without . . . I just. It's been a long time. It's
hard."

She lets that settle in
for a bit before speaking again.

"You mentioned
making mistakes and I only ask because you brought it up just before dinner
arrived. Jane died in an accident, so what are you so sorry about? You didn't
have anything to do with that. Did you?"

I swallowed hard. I knew
eventually she'd ask.

"If it wasn't for
me, Jane and Aspen would still be alive. So, yeah I did."

Chapter 25

I stand there looking at
Michelle. My jacket draped over her shoulders. Wondering if this is the time
that I should really unload on her about what happened. I've never really told
anyone the full story. It's been wrapped up tight inside me, choking the life
out of me. Turning my insides sour. Poisoned.

The day Jane and Aspen
died I was in New York City. So were they. It's not something I want to talk
about. Not something I have talked about. I'm embarrassed and ashamed. More
than anything else, goddamn it, I'm guilty. Guilty of being a lying piece of
shit who threw away every last bit of good in my life and flushed it. Guilty of
being the person I hated. Guilty because I shouldn't have let this happen.

I said it before. Jane
and Aspen's deaths were my fault. Alone. It's the reason I left and the reason
I shouldn't let anyone get close to me. It's the reason I didn't want to stay
in Spokane and take on the responsibility for my family. Because they are
better off without me.

I'm weak. Always have
been. Jane and Aspen made me stronger. They let me be better. I was on top of
the world with my family. I still believe this. This liar. This guilty man.
This is what I believe. This embarrassed and ashamed jerk. Even today. Even
after I ruined it all. I just didn't know it then.

Why? Too easy a question
for such a complex answer. Why do I feel this way? Or why did I let it happen?
I let it happen because I was a clueless dolt who got drunk with
self-importance and let my personal desires trump everything else.

I'm not this man
anymore. I won't be this man again. If you've stuck with me this far, you
deserve to know the truth. Michelle does too, so she can stay as far away from
me as she can.

Here's what happened.

*
* *

"Jane and I were
not in a good place," I tell Michelle as we sit on a bench overlooking the
lake. We're huddled together because it's cold and the wind coming off the lake
is penetrating. This position also means that I can talk about what happened
and not have to look at Michelle directly. It's just easier I guess. Holding
her close, sharing my secrets.

"My book had been
out for a few years and it had done really well," I say. "I was
writing full time. Jane continued to work too. I was writing in the attic above
our house, closed off from everyone else. We didn't see each other that much,
even if we were in the same house. The money we made from the book sales was
slowly trickling off and things were getting tight. I never planned on being a
success, but with it came the pressure of doing it again. Otherwise, I'd have to
go back to selling insurance or some other mind-numbing job. I couldn't have
that. So I wrote—a lot."

I pause for a moment to
collect my thoughts.

"In the three
months before Jane died, I wrote three novels," I say. "Granted, they
were raw, unedited works."

"I don't know much
about writing novels, but that seems like a lot," she says.

"Yes, it was,"
I say. "Letting your mind drift and staying in other worlds for a
sustained period of time is very difficult. The life around you suffers. The
little things that impede your meager progress become difficult to deal with.
Better people—people other than me—know how to handle this, how to
live a double life. Jane didn't understand. When we were together we fought.
When we were apart, I wrote. There wasn't much middle ground.

 
"I needed someone to talk to.
Someone who could understand how I felt. My agent, Monique was there for me.
She took a chance on me. I was a nobody until she got me published. So I
drifted toward her."

"You had an affair,"
Michelle said. It wasn't a question.
 

"Yes," I
breathe out, hoping that if I say it quietly enough it wouldn't be so wrong.
"When the book first started to do well, I had to travel a lot to do
signings or meet with people in the publishing industry to get publicity.
Because I was a first-time author, I needed someone to tell me what to do. It
doesn't come naturally to me to put on a face or a show for the cameras.
Sometimes she traveled with me. We spent a lot of time together. She helped me
through those first few months. And I made a mistake. It was one time on a trip
to Atlanta. We drank too much and I messed up. It never happened again."

"That's not really
an affair," she contends.

"I don't care what
you call it," I assert. "It shouldn't have happened and it did.
There's nothing I could do to undo it."

"But you did,
right? You said it was one time. People make mistakes, Billy," Michelle
says.

"I should have
found a new agent, but I didn't. For a long time I tried to pretend it didn't
happen. I had a hard time facing Jane. I didn't tell her. It would have crushed
her and ended my marriage instantly. We were rocky in the first place. She was
distant and distracted."

"Don't you think
that she knew something was wrong? Women have this sense. They know something
is off, even if they can't pinpoint why."

"This isn't making
me feel any better," I say, thinking that if Michelle is right, then it
didn't matter that I didn't tell Jane about the affair; she knew.

"I don't think this
should make you feel better," she says. "You're the one who screwed
up, right?

"Yes."

"So what
happened?"

 
"I tried to avoid talking to
Monique—it was just business, but when I started to struggle with
writing, with the pressure, I went to her for help."

"Did it help? With
the stress, I mean?"

"Not really,"
I say. "She read my draft novels and gave me notes on them, but said that
she couldn't sell any of them."

"I don't know what
you mean."

"An agent's job is
to be your first filter before an editor or publisher gets ahold of your book.
They are sort of like a gatekeeper. They form the relationships with the
publishers and cut the deals so authors make money—hopefully. If they
don't believe an author's work is good—or more importantly worth anything
to a publisher, then you can't sell the book."

"So she rejected
all your novels?" Michelle asks. "Why didn't you just get a new
agent?"

"Honestly, I don't
know. I thought that she was my best shot at success again. We did so well the
first time out and we'd sold the movie rights, that I figured it needed to
happen again through her. So I stayed with her."

"You really are a
man, aren't you?" Michelle now turns to face me.

"What?"

"You really didn't
see what she was doing?"

"She wasn't helping
me, that's for sure."

"I can't believe I
have to spell this out for you," she says. "You rejected her by being
with her once, but never again. Then you still went to her when you needed
something. Tell me, is she an agent for any other authors?"

"Yes,
several."

"And are they any
good? Do they sell a lot of books?"

"They do very well
and are regularly on the New York Times Bestseller list."

"So, she didn't
need you as much as you needed her?"

"I guess not, but I
don't see how . . ."

"She used you Billy.
You rejected her, so she rejected you. Do you really think your draft novels
were worthless? None of them were worth a shot?"

"I don't know.
Monique is the only person who read them."

"You didn't show
them to anyone else? Not even Jane?"

"No," I admit.
"Well, that's not entirely true. My niece Kendall read a few of them
without me knowing."

"And what did she
say?"

"I doesn't matter,
she's just a—"

"Don't say she's
just a kid. If she's the only other person to read the novel, or novels, then
her opinion matters. What did she say?"

"She liked
them."

"OK. So why did you
believe Monique when she rejected them?"

There were so many
reasons, but none I want to say to Michelle. I was afraid of her being proven
right. I was sure my first success was a fluke. I thought maybe I only had one
novel in me and the rest were junk.

"I don't know. I
just did."

"That's a cop-out
answer," she says. "It's fine. I know you're opening up for the first
time about this stuff. But I also believe you know the answer and you're just
not saying it."

We sit there for a long
while, huddled together. I'm kicking myself for telling her the truth. Ending a
great night out with a therapy session, isn't how I imagined the night would
go. Me spilling the beans about how I was a terrible husband. I'm sure she is
ready to run now that she knows the truth.

But she kisses me,
again, which surprises me.

"There was this guy
I used to know way back in high school," she says. "He was a good
guy. Smart. Well-intentioned. I saw myself with him for a long time. But we
were kids and took different paths. It happens. Billy, I still see you. The
you
that I
remember from back then, before all of this happened to you."

"Thank you, I mean
that, but this didn't just happen to me," I say. "I made it happen. These
are my mistakes."

"And you intend to
punish yourself for the rest of your life for it? You're going to push everyone
away?"

"That's not
fair."

"No, it's not.
That's why I said it."

"I don't want to
hurt anyone else," I say.

"Billy, the only
way people can trust each other—and I mean really trust each
other—is if there is a bond that keeps them together. The threat of that
bond breaking is at the heart of life and love. You can only feel strongly
about someone if you know that your heart would be ripped out of your chest if
you didn't have them there anymore. Love
is
hurting people. It's bubbling just below the
surface all the time. It's risking that hurt every single day because you love
them so much."

I don't know how she did
it, but somehow that makes sense to me.

"So, did I push you
away?" I ask.

"I think you've got
a lot that you still need to deal with."

"True."

"But I'd like to be
there with you as we figure it out," she says.

We watch the cold lake
waves gently lap against the beach. We hold each other, just like it used to be
years ago. This feels good, but I can't seem to shake the feeling that it could
slip through my fingers in an instant.