HER SECRET

HER SECRET

By Dee Weinberg

I know her secret. I didn’t ask for it, it was flung at me in a rush of words during a conversation I never expected.

It was a perfect autumn morning. The kind that energizes you with warm sun and the delicious smell of mowed grass and fire pit ashes from the night before.

I was finishing raking the leaves that had drifted over from the neighbor’s huge maple tree. My back was starting to ache from pushing the piles of leaves into the black garbage bag hung on the fence. I felt my phone vibrate and debated if I needed or wanted to talk to anyone in the midst of my outdoor bliss. I caved and pushed the blue accept button on my phone.

“Do you have time for a quick lunch?” It was a voice I hadn’t heard in months.

“ Wow, it’s been a long time—how are you?” I tried to hide the sarcasm in my voice. 

“I’ll be a lot better if we can meet and talk”. Familiar words I had heard many times.

Our strange connection had been built on many “can you talk” moments. 

“Can you talk, my kids are driving me crazy. Can you talk, my parents need help and the most recent call, can you talk, Jeremy is dying.” I had heard from colleagues that he had been sick, but I had no idea it was this serious.

The shock of the last call made it clear that this woman viewed

our relationship much differently than I did. When she pushed my number on her phone memory dial, she knew she would get a response to her drama of the moment.

We had met years ago through a work project. We were on a creative team that was charged with developing a special event focusing on the newest exercise equipment available for home use and food subscriptions that could reinforce the healthy living message that was being showcased. We had stayed in touch with occasional lunches and phone calls. I enjoyed her company but never considered her a close friend. She was good for a laugh, opinions on the latest movies and she always knew the latest gossip in the trade.

She and her husband Jeremy ran an ad agency. It was he that pulled me into agency projects on a regular basis. I liked him. His hard shell masked his generous nature that he so freely shared with me. 

I was sad to know that I would never again be the recipient of his stories about the history of some of the well-known brands his agency had been fortunate enough to call clients. I would miss the enjoyment he radiated as he shared the latest vintage jazz record he picked up at some random garage sale. His collection of vinyl was impressive.

His wife and I arranged to meet for a quick bite at one of the new bistros that had become a social media favorite. We ordered and then treated ourselves to one of their popular pear martinis. 

“I need to tell you something that I have not shared with anyone else”, she began. “I mean no one.” This declaration of something to come made me put down my fork, sit up a bit straighter, and ready myself. Her words came pouring out faster than I could process.

 “When Jeremy was dying, I had an ongoing affair with his doctor. We began flirting during the many office visits when terminal illness became the diagnosis. We had a secret phone code to enable us both to steal a few minutes everyday for

conversation. We would meet in ordinary neighborhood bars to grab a bite or just to grab. The grabbing turned into scheduled hotel time with incredible sex, and it all came to an abrupt end on Valentines Day.  

We planned to have a romantic dinner in a new restaurant about an

hour’s ride away to celebrate. We would take separate cars and the plan was to stay overnight and finish our holiday celebration with breakfast in bed the next morning. It never happened.”

My mind was racing. I needed her to stop talking. Her husband was dying and she was having a fling with the same doctor trying to make him comfortable in the time he had left. I could feel my anger creeping into my breathing. My chest was heavy with

emotion and I wanted to run. I realized that I had been putting tiny rips in the paper napkin on my lap and I tore bigger holes as she continued.

 “I drove to the restaurant and waited for over an hour in the parking lot for him to show. My small overnight bag, in the trunk of my car, had the new lingerie I bought for his Valentine’s Day surprise. The surprise was on me. I pulled out my phone and

dialed our secret code. For the first time it prompted me to another number. 

It was the number patient’s used in an emergency. Without thinking I punched it in and he picked up right away. I told him I was waiting and asked when he would be arriving."

He hit me in my heart with a voice as cold as ice.

"I am out for a Valentines Day dinner with my wife. If you are having an emergency, please call 911." "The phone clicked and just like that, it was over."

She finally stopped talking and started to cry. I sipped the last of my martini as she tried to pull herself together. There were no words of support coming from me. I wanted to slap her.

This selfish, egotistical woman had put her own pleasure over her dying husband’s pain.

She was looking to me for comfort, understanding and forgiveness. All I had for her was anger and disbelief. 

I had been her confessional for far too long. It was time to finally end whatever this was that we had. No more phone calls, no more “can you” lunches and no more secrets.

This was not a secret, it was a confession looking for absolution. A secret is only a secret if it is kept silent. These words had been spoken and the noise inside my head was deafening.