Gerald came home later than usual.
I heard his keys before I heard his footsteps.
He entered the house and placed something on the counter.
Then he called my name.
"Terry?"
I was in the living room.
"Yes?"
He appeared in the doorway.
His eyes moved around the room.
Then he looked toward the stairs.
"Have you started packing?"
I looked at him.
"No."
He exhaled.
"I thought we had agreed."
"We haven't agreed on anything about packing."
His expression changed.
"I gave you forty-eight hours."
"I remember."
He looked at the clock.
"Time is passing."
I nodded.
"So it is."
He seemed frustrated by my calmness.
For years, I had reacted quickly whenever he sounded impatient.
I had tried to solve whatever problem he believed existed.
That evening, I simply waited.
Gerald removed his jacket.
He placed it over the back of a chair.
Then he sat down.
"Can we talk?"
I nodded.
He looked tired.
His face had lost some of the confidence it had carried at dinner.
But I didn't mistake that for regret.
I had learned not to assume that somebody felt sorry simply because they looked uncomfortable.
He leaned forward.
"I spoke with my father."
I waited.
"He thinks we're making this harder than necessary."
I looked at him.
"Your father has had a lot to say."
Gerald rubbed his hands together.
"He's worried about the situation."
I almost asked whether Walter was worried about me.
But I didn't.
Gerald continued.
"He thinks you should accept the arrangement and move on."
I looked at him.
"Did you tell him about the Friday meeting?"
His hands stopped moving.
He looked toward the hallway.
"Yes."
I waited.
"What did he say?"
Gerald didn't answer immediately.
Then he said, "He remembers it."
I nodded.
"I thought he would."
Gerald looked at me.
"That doesn't mean you should use it against us."
I felt a small ache in my chest.
I hadn't expected him to say that.
"Against you?"
He looked down.
"You know what I mean."
I shook my head.
"No, Gerald. I don't."
He stood and walked toward the window.
He looked outside at the wet patio.
I remembered how many evenings we had spent in that room.
We had talked about the company.
We had talked about Naomi.
We had talked about ordinary plans.
Sometimes we had said very little.
I had thought those quiet evenings meant we were comfortable together.
Now I wondered how much of that comfort had come from my willingness to avoid difficult questions.
Gerald turned around.
"The agreement was made when we were dealing with something important."
I nodded.
"Yes."
"And we dealt with it."
"Yes."
"So why can't you leave it alone?"
I looked at him.
"Because you brought the divorce papers to dinner and told me I had nothing to take from this family."
He rubbed his forehead.
"That's not what I meant."
I waited.
He didn't explain.
I looked at the chair where he had left his jacket.
Then I looked at him.
"Do you understand why I signed only the first page?"
He frowned.
"Because you were upset."
"No."
I shook my head.
"Because I read it."
He looked at me.
I continued.
"I acknowledged receiving the documents. I didn't agree to everything inside them."
Gerald's expression became more serious.
He seemed to be hearing that distinction for the first time.
I didn't explain further.
I didn't need to.
He looked toward the stairs.
"Where are the papers?"
"Upstairs."
"I want to see them."
"They're the same papers you gave me."
He shook his head.
"I mean the other ones."
I looked at him.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I answered.
"I remember where they are."
He stared at me.
I could tell he wanted to ask another question.
Instead, he sat down again.
I remained standing.
The forty-eight-hour deadline was still hanging over the house.
But I was no longer measuring my time by it.
I was thinking about the Friday meeting.
The blue binder.
The lawyer's office.
And the two men who had signed their names.
Gerald looked at me.
"Terry, we need to settle this."
I nodded.
"Yes."
I paused.
"But not by pretending that the past doesn't exist."
He looked away.
I walked toward the stairs.
I wasn't carrying a suitcase.
I wasn't carrying a box.
I was carrying nothing.
For the first time in forty years, I wasn't rushing to make Gerald's next decision easier.
And when I reached the bedroom, I understood that the most important thing I had kept from that Friday afternoon was not a memory of how frightened he had been.
It was the fact that he had trusted me enough to ask for help.
I had never forgotten that.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: Gerald Finally Asked What I Remembered From That Friday, and I Realized He Was More Worried Than He Wanted Me to Know
The Dinner I Thought Was Ordinary Until My Husband Put an Envelope Beside My Plate
Part 16 of 20
