Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
The prison is in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing but dirt and dust, and sprawling, ugly cacti. Mountains jut up in the distance, incongruous to the flat landscape.
I’ve made this drive for almost three months now, and each week it’s harder than the time before it.
I thought I’d lost Gabriel all at once, but no. Each Saturday, I find a little less of my husband in his dark eyes. At last week’s visit the vacancy in his gaze took my breath away. It is as if I’m holding an ice cube in the middle of July, watching it slowly melt and slide between the cracks in my fingers.
My husband is slipping away.
I’m here now. I park, and take the kind of breath that fills my chest and burns my lungs. I swipe on two extra coats of lip balm, after learning the hard way that false smiles crack the corners of my mouth. I pass through the metal detector while they check the contents of my purse. I step into the visitor’s room, and sit down at a table to wait for Gabriel.
A man a few tables over from me smiles in this sad way and nods. I nod, but do not smile. I cannot force the muscles to move that way right now. False or not, I have to save all my smiles for Gabriel.
The man gets up, pushes in his chair, and approaches me. He stands behind the seat across from me, the seat meant for Gabriel. He's balding, his belly a paunch beneath his starched white shirt and navy blue jacket. His long fingers grip the chair, all bare save for a simple gold band on his pinky.
“Mrs. Woodruff?”
I stiffen. “Yes?” Has something happened to Gabriel? Has he been beat up? Hurt? Worse?
“I’m Peter Whalen. A family law attorney.” He holds out his hand. I let it hover in the open space before shaking it woodenly.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
He gestures to the chair. “May I sit?” He drops into the seat without waiting for my response. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m here.” He digs into his briefcase, coming away with a small sheaf of papers.
Instantly, I get it.
I’m shocked, but maybe not really. Not deep down.
It makes sense.
It’s so Gabriel.
The lawyer straightens the papers. I clutch my purse to my chest, as though it can provide any measure of safety against the pain bending my heart in two.
“You don’t look surprised.” He tips his head to one side, surveying me.
“Peter…Mr. Whalen…”
“Peter is fine.”
“Have you ever watched a movie where you had no idea what was going to happen, but somehow you guessed the ending anyway?”
He pulls a pen from his jacket pocket. “I don’t watch movies. But I understand the point you’re making.” Peter taps the pen on the papers, nodding slowly as he thinks. “Gabriel’s world has become tiny. He controls nothing. He hates what he’s done to you.”
“He told you that?” My eyebrows pull together. How long has this man known Gabriel?
“Not in those words. I’ve done this long enough now that I know what’s going through his head.”
I don’t care how many other clients there were before, and why it means Peter thinks he knows my husband. “How long have you known Gabriel?”
“He contacted me a few weeks ago.”
“You work quickly.”
“These kinds of things can go quite fast when uncontested.” He coughs. “I’m assuming this is uncontested?”
I fold my hands in my lap. “I want to talk to Gabriel.”
“He has said that he would prefer not to see or speak to you.”
There’s a fist in my gut. I’m being punched. There’s no other way to explain the pain rocking my core right now. I sit back and cross my arms. “I’m supposed to sign divorce papers without ever having a last conversation with my husband? Is that what’s really being asked of me?”
Sympathy softens the corners of his eyes. “I know this is unexpected, and quite painful, and I?—”
“Did he come to this conclusion alone?” I understand it all, and yet it still doesn’t make sense. It is perfectly Gabriel to think he is doing right by me. It is not Gabriel to choose not to face me.
“He contacted me. I met with him, and his mind was already made up. I didn’t lead him to it, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“This is uncharacteristic of him.” For a second, I marvel at how calm I am, but I’m not really all that calm. Not on the inside. I’m scraping and scrounging, trying like hell to survive this.
Peter sighs, like he too is overwhelmed by what he’s doing. “Maybe you can try to look at things from Gabriel’s point of view. He’s distressed by his current situation. And ashamed, from what I can tell. He was a firefighter, which means he’s used to occupying the role of hero. What he's doing now…it's coming from the same place. He’s trying to save you.”
“From what?”
“The life you’re being forced to lead, I presume.”
What will happen, if I refuse? Should I do it? Force his hand? What will that look like?
I picture months of pain, of showing up here to visit and him refusing to see me. Would he do that? How far will it go? How bad will it get? Would I end up hating him?
In the end, my own hopelessness wins out.
I say nothing. I take the pen. Did Gabriel use this pen? Has he already signed? I flip to the end, to the paper with the purple tab sticking out the side.
Gabriel Douglas Woodruff
I can’t breathe.
The pen shakes. My signature is a jagged mess. Almost illegible.
I push the papers away and stand. I take a step away, but the lawyer’s voice saying my name draws me back.
He reaches into his briefcase again, this time producing a long, rectangular envelope. “Gabriel asked me to give you this.”
He holds it out. I stare down at the envelope, at his knuckles covered in tiny reddish hairs.
A swell of indignation rises inside me. “If Gabriel can’t face me and say what he has to say, I don’t want to read his words either.”
He keeps the envelope extended, as though I might change my mind. “One day down the road, you might want to read this.”
I lean down, the chain strap of my purse smacking the table and making a loud sound. I take the envelope, and grab the pen I just used to sign my divorce papers. On the front, I write A Very Heartfelt Refusal To Read . To Peter, I say, “Please return this to Gabriel.”
I want no part of what he has to say in a letter. I’m afraid if I see his boxy handwriting, his r’s that sometimes look like v’s, I will be taken down right here in the visitor room. It is only by sheer stubbornness that I am upright.
Peter motions to the envelope, and my handwriting. “I know you feel blindsided, but I’ve been in family law for a long time. You’ll be ok. Everyone, no matter how hard the experience, eventually ends up at the same point. For some, the path is a lot more painful than it needs to be.”
“Thank you for the advice.” My tone is clipped. I push the editorialized envelope to him and tap it with one finger. “But the sentiment stands.”
I make it to my car before the tears take over. They become a curtain, a waterfall, and I can no longer see. I fold my arms on my steering wheel and sob. I scream and I cry and I pound a fist on my dash.
I learned early on that life isn’t fair.
But I didn’t think it would be this cruel.
It takes me a week to tell Camryn what happened. I couldn't bear to let those words cross my lips, as if speaking them into the universe makes them truer than they already are. I tell her in a text message, because it's easier than watching her face process the news. I cannot hold her anguish, too.
Before the day is out, my dad is calling. I answer, taking us both by surprise. I rarely answer his calls these days.
"Hey, hon," he greets, cautious.
"Hi, Dad."
"How are you?"
Half-alive. "Fine."
He'd readily swallowed my fine when I was growing up, because it was a relief to him to think I didn't need anything. I saw that relief in his eyes, and understood. He needed me to be fine. So I was.
This time, he presses. Maybe it's Lara's presence in his life. Perhaps she has, at long last, awoken him from his selfish stupor. "Cam told me what happened. You're not fine, hon. You couldn't possibly be."
"This is new information to you, but I've already had a week to process."
He sighs. "About that…you've got to start leaning on the people who love you. Let us help you. Why didn't you call me right away?"
Is he hurt ? The thought angers me, awakening me from the state of nothingness I've been in for seven days.
And then, for the first time in my life, I say what I'm thinking. My dad-filter is missing, gone like Gabriel.
"Why would I have called you ?"
He makes a sound, I can't discern if it's a gasp or a sharp exhale. What's obvious is that he's hurt. Again . And I can't take it.
I hang up and turn off my phone, staring at the black screen.
Well, damn. There it is.
I remember being at the ocean for the first time, standing at the shoreline and feeling awestruck by its power. I pressed my foot into the wet sand, the surf broke around my ankle, and it struck me that I'd affected the will of the water simply by exerting a tiny bit of force.
My small truth, spoken aloud to my dad for the first time ever, feels like my tentative step into the breaking wave.
And yet, there's no relief to be found. If anything, I feel shittier than I did before he called.
I keep picturing the divorce papers and Gabriel’s signature. I added my own to the document, and our last names matched. We’ve legally parted ways, but we share a last name.
Grabbing my laptop, I type how to change a last name after divorce in the search bar.
My body aches at the query, but I press on. There is no reason for me to keep Gabriel’s last name.
Avery Burke, here I come.