Chapter Fourteen #2
“Why would he say it otherwise? I guess the real question is, what’re you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Hope it’s not true. If it is true, hope it runs its course.
” Teresa felt so defeated. She looked up at Ronnie, embarrassed by the small glimmer of hope already appearing in her mind.
“Even if it is true—and I’m not saying it definitely is—it’s not like he’s cheating on me with another woman, you know? I mean, it’s different.”
“Oh, honey, stop fooling yourself. Of course it’s cheating. Woman, man—makes no difference. Your husband is sleeping with someone else. That’s all that matters. In some ways, this is much worse. Think about it. How many married men do you know who cheat with other men?”
A sob broke through Teresa’s lips, and she clasped a hand over her mouth.
“Sweetie, I’m not telling you to leave him, but make no mistake—it’s cheating.”
Teresa thought, I didn’t know about my husband’s sex life.
What a strange statement. She’d lived with her husband all this time and never suspected until recently.
It was, at the very least, a monumental act of naivete and obliviousness.
Even sexually, she’d never guessed. She’d assumed the falling off she and Frank had experienced was simply the normal course of events when the husband was working two jobs and the wife was taking care of two little kids.
Or with a wife like Teresa, who had gained so much weight.
The gall of him—letting her believe her own inadequacies had been the cause when all along, he’d been having an affair.
Teresa and Frank had a way of making love that was long practiced and differed little from one time to the next.
It allowed them to go through the motions in a language of their own, not having to renew their communication, sticking to the protocol.
She’d sensed an unmistakable shift recently.
But she’d never smelled a trace of another woman or found a smear of lipstick on his shirt.
Another man? That hadn’t even been on her radar.
Not until she caught Frank looking lustfully at Tommy.
That had been the first clue. She thought about how much time Frank and Henry spent alone together, seemingly in their own world.
How they looked at each other and interacted.
The pieces of the puzzle were fitting together.
“All those years,” Teresa said, recognition dawning. “It may have all been false.” She shook her head. “All those times we made love, I was making love to a man who was having sex with other men.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You didn’t know. How could you have known?”
“I guess it’s better that I know. Better not to live a lie.” Teresa couldn’t tell who she was trying to convince—herself or Ronnie.
Then she thought of something that filled her with fear. She leaned across the table and tightly gripped Ronnie’s wrist. “You can’t tell anyone about this, Ronnie. You hear me? No one.”
Ronnie flinched. “Of course not. You know I would never do that. For Christ’s sake.” Teresa released Ronnie’s wrist, and Ronnie pulled it back to her side in a protective gesture. “And for your sake too. And the kids’.”
“I know,” Teresa said, already sorry for lashing out at her.
“This isn’t something we should shout from the rooftops.
I know that.” Ronnie looked pleadingly at Teresa.
“My heart breaks for you. It does. No matter what you decide, this will not be easy. But I’m most worried about your kids.
Thankfully, they're still young enough to be oblivious to their father's... foolishness. The question is whether things will change in time to save them from it.”
Teresa swallowed hard. She felt like she was on a merry-go-round. If she confronted Frank head-on, her life would be over either way, whether they stayed together and lived a lie or separated and broke apart their family. She felt trapped. How long will this charade go on?
Teresa was desperate—so desperate that on the way home from the diner, she stopped at St. Bartholomew Church, where she and Frank had been married.
It felt foreign, like they’d altered it during her absence.
Then she realized it was she that had changed, not the church.
Teresa had been born a Catholic but had become a convert to spirituality, struggling with religious conviction.
Her parents’ strict adherence to religious doctrine often felt like a straitjacket during her childhood.
But this wasn’t a time for splitting hairs.
Religion or spirituality—it didn’t matter.
Teresa needed to call upon all the gods and religions and higher spirits to help her through this.
Seated in a pew, she bowed. Then she raised her head and looked over at the statue of Mother Mary, which had always held a special place to her.
She loved the wedding tradition that some Catholics followed of gifting a bouquet to the statue of Mary and asking her to watch over the bride and help her be a strong and loving wife and mother.
Teresa remembered the bouquet she’d given. The beautiful lilac flowers.
Mary, I hope you’re listening. I could really use your help. Teresa knew a long line of wives had come begging Mary for help before her, but maybe Mary didn’t have a quota and could fit in one more bereft wife.
Teresa thought of the other Mary, as many Catholics referred to Mary Magdalene.
Perhaps that Mary would help her more than any other saint or deity.
Mary Magdalene had always fascinated Teresa, who suspected this Mary had been in love with Jesus but knew she couldn’t be with him.
Teresa felt empathy for her. This woman might have been hurt by falling in love with the wrong man.
She felt blasphemous for comparing her unholy situation with Frank with Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
But maybe because so many Catholics shunned Mary Magdalene, she had more room in her docket for Teresa’s unconventional prayers.
It certainly couldn’t hurt, she thought. I’ll take any help I can get from either Mary. Who cares if it’s blasphemous? Maybe the other Mary could help her get through this with her marriage intact and without hurting her children.