June 2, 2018
I have to say, there’s something about writing in a journal that helps. When our couples therapist recommended it a few months ago, I privately cast it off as something I would never do. But since getting fired （well, “let go”） from PKA, and with all this internal debate about moving forward with the Big Plan, my head feels like it’s on the verge of detonating, and letting my thoughts bleed on a blank page seems to provide at least some relief. At least it did last time. So here we go again.
To be clear, we’re no longer seeing said therapist. He charged three hundred dollars per hour-long session, none of which was covered by insurance, so after losing my job I quickly called and canceled our upcoming appointment. We are not going to reschedule.
Heather is pissy about this—she loved couples therapy and claims it was saving our marriage. Which is weird, because she has always been patently against therapy; thinks it’s woo-woo shit for weak people. Besides, I know Heather, and I know she thinks that MONEY is the thing that will save our marriage. She isn’t wrong.
I wish that weren’t true. I wish I were the kind of man who believes that love trumps all, that the power of love will hold us together even in the darkest days. But I’m not, at least not anymore. I’ve witnessed enough in my forty-five years on this planet to know that unfortunately love isn’t enough, not even close.
What I do still believe in these days is family—it’s something Heather and I both believed in from the start, and I’m proud of us for that. Neither of us grew up with real families of our own—it’s part of the reason we became each other’s.
I hardly knew my father; my parents were high school sweethearts who divorced when I was still in diapers, and my dad ended up in prison a couple years after that. My mom ran off to California with some guy when I was eight and never came back, so my grandma—my dad’s mom—raised me. Grams was the closest thing I ever had to a parent, even as her Alzheimer’s grew worse and worse. She died the year I started college in New York. She didn’t have much memory left by that point, but I like to think she knew I’d left Langs Valley. It would’ve made her happy to know I’d gotten out of there.
So Heather and I chose our own family—we chose each other. And after Garrett was born, we promised to keep choosing each other, and our son, and any future children we brought into the world. We knew all too well what a broken home looked like, and Heather said she’d die before she raised her kids in one. She was committed to giving Garrett, Hope, and Maggie everything her own childhood had lacked—stable, loving parents in a solid marriage was at the top of the list. Education was a close second.
Even when it felt impossible, I’d always admired Heather’s approach to raising our children. Our marriage became my religion. It’s where I’ve laid myself bare—whole and splintered. My unconditional love for the kids has never been a choice, but my union with Heather is—it has always been. The key is to keep choosing it, to stick with it like a kind of blind faith. And when you have a deep enough faith in something, it becomes a miracle. That’s what Heather taught me. That’s what she’s given me.
That’s why I’ve decided to do it. I have the summer to find employment—three months to land a decent job, one that pays more than what I was making at PKA. And if I’m still unemployed come September, then I’m going to move forward with the Big Plan. I’m going to do it for my family.
Wish me luck, journal, universe, cosmos, whatever it is that you are. I’ll need it. It’s not the first time in two decades I’ll be applying for new jobs—PKA never paid well, and I tried hard to go elsewhere. I didn’t stay at the company for twenty years out of loyalty or because I loved what I did. I stayed because I was lucky to be there in the first place. When you get yourself into a mess like I did in ’97, no one will hire you.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Heather
Dear Dr. K,
I know what you think. I saw the way you looked at my husband when we came in for counseling. You think he’s the good guy and I’m the villain. But you need to know the truth about him—as his therapist, you deserve to know the truth. So let me tell you what really happened.
One freezing cold morning in January, when I was sixth months pregnant with Hope, I was woken by pounding on the front door.
Burke has always slept like a rock and he didn’t even stir. It was barely six A.M. as I waddled toward the foyer, bleary-eyed but anxious. I opened the door slowly. Two men in blue jackets stood with their arms crossed. They announced themselves as FBI and told me they’d come to arrest my husband.
Panic seized every inch of me as I watched them storm into my home, helpless as they marched into our bedroom and roused Burke from half sleep.
“What the fuck is going on?” I yelled as Burke dressed, the agents watching from the doorway.
“Your husband has been arrested for insider trading, ma’am,” one of FBI men said. “He’ll get a call later today. We suggest waiting by the phone.”
“This has to be a mistake,” I said desperately, grabbing Burke’s arm. From his bedroom, Garrett started wailing.
“Just stay by the phone, Heather.” Burke’s eyes landed on mine. I’d never seen him look so terrified. “I love you and Garrett more than anything.”
The day stretched on forever while I sat on the couch, panicked, waiting for the phone to ring. Garrett was fussy—I knew he needed a walk in his stroller—but I refused to leave the apartment. Finally, at a quarter past four, Burke called. The sound of his familiar voice instantly settled me, like a glass of warm milk. He said to come down to the courthouse and sign him out. As long as I’d be a suretor on his bond, he could come home.
“For now,” he added, and I felt the panic inside me spread.
I stuffed Garrett into his down suit and winter hat and barreled down to the lobby. I waited impatiently while the doorman called us a cab. It was rush hour and took nearly forty minutes to get to the downtown address Burke had given me.
At the courthouse I was directed to sign several forms, which I did without thinking, my signature a quick, illegible line.
Burke looked paler than I’d ever seen as the guards led him out of the holding cell, dark circles ringing his eyes. As soon as they’d uncuffed him, he kissed me, and for the first time in six years I smelled alcohol on him, its pungent, lingering scent. I hadn’t noticed it the night before, but he’d gotten home late from the office, after I was already asleep.
Burke took Garrett from my arms, cradling his son close. Tears stained Burke’s cheeks and beaded the ends of his thick, dark lashes, and I realized I hadn’t seen my husband cry like this since Gus died.
I made every effort to stay even-keeled on the way back to the apartment—I didn’t want to discuss any of this in front of Garrett. Orange light glowed through the taxi windows as we sped uptown, the sun a neon sliver between the buildings to the west. Burke leaned his head against my shoulder. The stink of the booze on him made me want to scream. How had I not noticed it this morning?
At home, I put Garrett in his crib, praying he’d fall asleep. Burke headed straight to our room and climbed into bed, but I yanked the covers back.