For a few seconds, I couldn't move.
I had spent forty years learning the sound of Roscoe's truck.
I knew when he was coming home.
I knew when he was leaving.
I knew the difference between his tired voice and his cheerful one on the telephone.
I thought I knew what to expect when I saw him.
I had never imagined this.
The woman was still standing beside him.
Her pink hoodie looked strangely bright against the blue truck.
Her sunglasses were pushed up over her hair.
Roscoe had one hand near her waist.
I watched them as if looking away would somehow make what I had seen less real.
It didn't.
The boys stopped waving.
The oldest lowered the cardboard sign a little.
The youngest looked from the truck to me.
He didn't understand.
Neither did I.
Then Roscoe looked in our direction.
He saw us.
I expected something to happen to his face.
I expected surprise.
Embarrassment.
Maybe even fear.
I thought he might step away from the woman.
He didn't.
His expression barely changed.
He looked tired.
Then he let out a breath.
Almost like we had interrupted something inconvenient.
I stood there waiting for him to explain.
He started walking toward us.
The woman came with him.
She was holding his arm.
That was the part I noticed next.
She didn't hang back.
She didn't look uncomfortable enough to disappear.
She walked beside my husband as though she belonged there.
I looked down at the boys.
They were silent.
The sign was still in their hands.
I wanted to take it from them.
I wanted to tell them to go back to the van.
I wanted to put myself between them and what was happening.
But my feet wouldn't move.
Roscoe reached us.
"Lib."
That was all he said at first.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just my name.
I looked at him.
"What are you doing here?"
He sounded as though I had arrived somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.
I had to remind myself that this was the man I had married.
The man whose sandwiches I packed.
The man whose mother I cared for.
The man whose calls I answered even when I was busy.
I swallowed.
"We came to see you."
I gestured toward the boys.
"They wanted to surprise you."
The oldest lifted the sign slightly.
I could see the effort he had put into making the letters neat.
It suddenly looked so small.
The woman glanced at it.
She looked at the boys.
Then she gave a little laugh.
"Well, this certainly isn't what I expected."
I looked at her.
I didn't know what to say.
I didn't know her.
I had never heard her name.
I only knew what I had just watched.
Roscoe shifted his weight.
"Don't start anything, Lib."
I stared at him.
He spoke as if the problem was my reaction.
Not what he had done.
Not the woman standing against his side.
Not the three little boys who had driven an hour to welcome him.
He told me her name.
"That's Jasmine."
I looked at her again.
Jasmine.
A name.
A real person.
Not some misunderstanding.
He continued.
"She rides with me sometimes."
I waited.
He didn't seem interested in explaining much more.
"These things happen."
I repeated the words quietly.
"These things happen."
I heard myself say it.
I wasn't sure why.
Maybe I wanted to hear how ridiculous it sounded.
Maybe I wanted to give him another chance to realize what he was saying.
He didn't take it.
He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
Or perhaps I had seen it and refused to recognize it.
"A man gets lonely out there, Lib."
He said it casually.
Almost kindly.
As if he were explaining something ordinary.
He reminded me that he spent weeks alone in his truck.
He said a man couldn't be expected to sit in a cab by himself for three weeks at a time.
I looked at him.
I thought about all the years he had been away.
I thought about the times I had gone to bed without him.
The Christmas mornings when his voice came through the telephone from some truck stop in Ohio.
The birthdays he missed.
The weekends I spent caring for his mother.
I had never made him feel guilty for having a job.
I had never asked him to give up the road.
I had never told him he owed me something for staying home.
I thought we had both understood what marriage meant.
Apparently, we had understood different things.
Jasmine made a small movement beside him.
She covered part of her face with her sleeve.
I noticed the expression she was trying to hide.
She was amused.
I looked away from her.
The boys were still standing there.
The oldest had stopped trying to hold the sign straight.
It was drooping toward the ground.
I wanted to tell him everything was all right.
But I couldn't.
Not yet.
Then Roscoe said something that made the moment even worse.
He told me that Jasmine wasn't the only woman.
I looked directly at him.
He didn't lower his voice.
He didn't look ashamed.
He spoke as if he were discussing the cost of fuel or the weather along his route.
I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
There are moments when anger arrives so quickly that you don't know what to do with it.
This wasn't like that.
Something inside me seemed to go quiet.
I thought about the bathtub.
His mother's hands gripping my arms while I helped her stand.
I thought about the little pieces of pork chop I cut for her supper.
I thought about her blanket folded over the wheelchair.
I thought about the boys making that sign.
I thought about the phone call on Tuesday.
Roscoe had said he couldn't wait to see them.
He had promised to bring them something.
I had believed he was looking forward to coming home.
I had believed that the things he told me meant what I thought they meant.
And now he was standing in front of me with another woman.
He wasn't even pretending to be sorry.
I felt hurt.
Deeply hurt.
But there was something else.
I remembered his mother.
She was still near the restaurant.
She had wanted to come.
She had insisted on seeing her son.
She had been looking forward to this afternoon.
And Roscoe had forgotten that she was here.
He had forgotten the woman who raised him.
The woman who had once carried him when he was little.
The woman who still called him her boy.
He had forgotten that I had brought her along.
That was when I understood what he had left out.
I looked at Roscoe.
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't ask Jasmine to explain herself.
I didn't tell the boys to put down the sign.
I simply smiled.
A small, gentle smile.
"I understand, sweetheart."
His expression changed immediately.
His shoulders loosened.
He looked relieved.
That was almost harder to watch than the kiss.
He had expected me to argue.
He had expected tears.
Perhaps he thought I would make a scene in front of the children.
But I didn't.
He seemed pleased with my answer.
"Good."
He nodded.
"I knew you'd see things reasonably."
I kept looking at him.
For a moment, I thought about telling him exactly what I thought.
I thought about the years.
The sacrifices.
The empty side of the bed.
The responsibilities I had carried while he was away.
But I didn't say any of it.
Not then.
I had one thing to tell him.
"There's just one thing you haven't considered."
His smile faded a little.
He looked confused.
"What would that be?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
I turned my eyes away from him.
Toward the restaurant entrance.
Roscoe followed my gaze.
He turned around.
And there she was.
His mother.
She had somehow managed to wheel herself across the parking lot.
Her blanket was still covering her knees.
She was close enough to hear us.
Close enough to have heard everything.
I looked at her.
Then I looked back at Roscoe.
His mother was right behind him.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: His Mother Had Crossed the Parking Lot Alone, and the Look on Her Face Told Me She Had Heard Enough
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 4 of 20
